Cheek to Cheek
by Kate Christie
Summary: When Kate Beckett, no-nonsense professional ballroom dancer, takes on bestselling novelist and renowned playboy Richard Castle as her partner for the third season of Dancing with the Stars, will the sparks that fly light up the dance floor, or send their chances for the trophy up in flames?
1. Chapter 1

Kate Beckett's flaming cheek presses down, stealing the chill from the sprung wood floor as she inhales. Her body relaxes into the stretch, lowering her chest and abs the final inches to lie flat between her outstretched legs. She holds the full center split for an extra few counts of eight, working through the tension in her spine. Her usual barre routine has left her muscles warm and limber, but her nerves have tied her stomach in knots.

Sitting, Kate folds her spandex-clad legs back in and steals another glance at the clock.

Ten minutes late.

She should not be surprised.

Celebrities, even minor ones, have no respect for other people's time.

Standing up, she crosses to the sound system. The song she has chosen for their first, and possibly last, routine pulls up a memory of standing atop her father's feet and swaying to the swell of a full orchestra. She had fallen in love that night, and for all its hardships, being a professional dancer still holds that same feeling of magic that she had felt two decades ago.

Reaching the corner of the room, she snaps out of the memory, smile mellowing as the reality of the next three months stretches out before her. At least they have drawn the foxtrot for the first week; it will be fairly benign and easy to adapt to any level of experience. And considering her student, now fourteen minutes late, she will have to adapt it significantly downward from her usual standards.

Richard Castle, best selling mystery writer and notorious Manhattan playboy, has probably never danced a step in his life. Well, not any real dancing, at least. Maybe a few smooth moves to impress a date at a charity function, but more than likely she will have to un-teach whatever he thinks he knows to keep them both from getting killed live on primetime TV.

As she cues up the proper track, her mind flashes back to the disaster that ended her last season on Dancing with the Stars: the over-muscled football player manhandling her out of their lift two beats too soon, and managing to drop Kate on her sequin-covered ass just as their song finished, had knocked them out in round one.

The first notes of her chosen song fill the room, and immediately her heart lightens. Not even the prospect of teaching another novice with an attitude, who also happens to be her favorite author, how to dance can diminish the burst of joy that comes with those notes.

Kate runs through the first few steps of her choreography, letting her body take over and shut off her brain. Her invisible partner, at least, gets every step right.

A sequence of spins leaves her facing the door, and she freezes mid-sway, arms tucking in to fold across her chest at the sight before her.

Six feet two inches of broad-chested _male_, clad in a simple black t-shirt that clings to bulging biceps and workout pants outlining well-muscled thighs, smiles at her across the room, and goose flesh erupts down her spine.

"Oh, please don't stop," he calls over the brass in the background.

Shaking her head, Kate rushes to shut off the song, giving herself an instant to press her palm to the wall and blink the stars from her eyes. When she turns, her lips are stretched wide in her most professional smile.

"Mr. Castle, so nice to meet you."

Kate will deny to her dying day the four hours she had spent waiting in line to have him sign her copy of _Gathering Storm_ three years earlier. But that day he had been sitting, and wearing a jacket, and she has to swallow to keep from drooling as he reaches out to clasp her hand between both of his massive palms.

"The pleasure is mine, Ms. Beckett. I'm so sorry I'm late. I should have known better than to bring two redheads to LA with me. Don't even get me started on the one who lives here."

His blue eyes sparkle with mischief.

Womanizing reputation, confirmed.

Exactly how does he plan to juggle not one but _three_ women and learn a ballroom routine worthy of airing on national TV? _Professionalism_ wins out over more inventive comebacks.

"It's no problem, really. I was just warming up."

His smile grows wider, if that is even possible, and her treacherous body reacts, heat blooming across her skin. The way the fluorescents play off the cuts and angles of his arms as he lifts his gear is not helping matters.

Shifting her focus back to his face, she finds his lips curved, one eyebrow arching up indulgently. Caught staring. Scrunching her brows, she huffs out a breath and turns on her heel, taking one sharp step toward the sound system.

And that is when she trips.

Not just a little catch of her toe that she can hide with an exaggerated step - no - this full-fledged flying leap sends her sprawling, a yelp of surprise escaping her throat as she hits the floor.

Before her brain can take stock of her mostly undamaged limbs and right them, he is at her side, chiseled arms reaching around her to lift her gently back to her feet, all the while repeatedly asking if she is okay.

The tips of her ears are on fire as she brushes his hands away and scurries the rest of the distance to the electronics bay on the wall, all the while spouting nonsense about warps in the flooring and how useful it is to practice her landings in this line of work.

A few button punches and one palm pressed flat to the ice-cold mirror later, and Kate has her heart rate under full control. The opening beats of Rihanna's "SOS" blare at full volume, the speakers sending out a bassline she registers in her lungs, and Kate's lips quirk up at one corner.

The philandering, overly gallant ass can play Hugh Hefner on his own time; she is here to teach him to dance. And if he happens have that ass soundly kicked by the turbo version of her warm-up, it will not be her problem.

Twenty minutes later, she nearly collapses on her back after their 300th crunch, breaths coming hot and fast, heart racing as she uses the rough cotton hem of her shirt to smear away the sweat collecting at the intersection of her collarbones.

Her student, cocky bastard, has barely a sheen of perspiration painting his brow as he finishes an extra set of 10 reverse crunches after the playlist has ended.

They both rise to seek their water bottles, with varying levels of breathlessness. The writer breaks the silence.

"You know, when my agent first called me to ask if I wanted to be on the show, I thought 'Why would I want to dance on TV? That's for Broadway hopefuls and Hollywood has-beens.' But I'm really glad my mother pushed. She always told me I could have been the next Fred Astaire, if I had only applied myself." He scrubbed a hand through his thick chestnut hair, setting its manicured tousle into unruly spikes.

There has been very little talking up to now, thanks to the music and exertion, except for his repeated mentions of Mindy, his "very bendy" and blond personal trainer back in New York. Kate carefully regulates her breathing to lower her heart rate before she answers, turning to the wall to conceal her eye roll.

"And you should always listen to your mother."

He mutters something that sounds like: "I wouldn't go that far," but it fades out as he bends over to reach into his bag.

Mopping as much of herself as she can with a subtle swipe of her towel, she turns the music off. Fine, the man is gorgeous. Grecian marble material. And strong. Able to hack her most brutal warm-up. But no amateur can charm his way across her dance floor.

Form, technique, and style: these are the pillars of her profession, and she is not about to let an amateur belittle it.

Gene Kelly? Fred Astaire? Pushovers.

Richard Castle will cry like a baby before this day is through.

"I want to work on basics today: frame, posture, rhythm. We have a few weeks before the first show, but everything we'll do from here on begins with those 3 things."

Reaching into her bag, she pulls out her current favorite leather-soled rehearsal heels and steps into them.

"Oh, I should put on my shoes, too," he says from his corner.

Kate nearly sprains her eye muscles but manages to inject some enthusiasm into her reply.

"Oh, great, yeah, put them on."

Flash Greggson had brought brand new patent leather tap shoes to his first lesson with her. Undoubtedly, this chucklehead will produce something to beat Twinkle Toes, as she _un_affectionately refers to her least favorite NFL running back.

Engrossed in arranging and buckling the crisscrossing black leather straps around her ankles, Kate looks up to find Castle already standing in the center of the dance floor, subtly-worn black men's ballroom shoes already neatly tied.

Her look as she joins him must be quizzical, because he tips his head and raises an eyebrow, then points at his feet.

"These okay?"

Maybe he bought a used pair, or wore them around the house, or something...

"Sure, perfect," she says, stepping up to stand before him, her body offset slightly to the left.

Even with the 3-inch heels, she is forced to look up to meet his eyes. She blinks, hard.

Sapphire.

Clearing her throat, she assumes her pose, right palm raised at her eye level, left arm miming resting on his right biceps, but with about two feet of space still between them.

"So the foxtrot uses a standard closed position, which establishes a steadfast frame from which all movements are referenced."

Castle mimes the man's position, maintaining the distance she has established between them.

"Got it."

His form is spot on. Her eyes narrow.

"Yes, and your right hand will come around my back," that gets an eyebrow waggle from him, and she fights to contain her groan, "-beneath my left shoulder blade."

Dropping her arms and stepping back slightly, she shakes out her limbs to reset, and he mimics her.

"But to get there, the gentleman must invite…" Castle shifts forward extending his left arm to offer his hand, "... the lady in."

Kate accepts the offered hand and steps in. As his wide palm settles firmly but gently just below the tip of her scapula, a ripple of awareness shimmers outward from every point of contact. At the same time, recognition sparks when their gazes meet, hers edged with red, and the realization erupts from her lips in a low growl before her filter kicks in.

"You've done this before."

# * # * # * #

Happy CastleFanficMonday, everyone! Thanks to Alex and Dia for team beta on this one, E, who made the gorgeous cover art, and especially the tumblr anon who prompted it: "AU Dancing with the stars! Kate is the professional dancer, Castle is her celebrity partner! Any direction you wanna go :D"

This should be fun.

Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com

Twitter: Kate_Christie_


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Castle, if you do not lock your frame, I will lose my point of reference and break Len Goodman when I land on his lap."

Kate catches her balance out of a misguided underarm turn and rounds on her partner, ignoring the playful strains of Sinatra in the background in favor of fury. They have only one week left until their first dance on national television, and there is no time for his spaghetti arms.

"Excuse me? Those were not 'spaghetti arms'; that was a stylistic flourish."

Damn, she must have said that last part out loud.

"Your mother's two-bit, Broadway 'stylistic flourishes' will knock us out of this competition before week two. This is ballroom dance, not _A Chorus Line_. Form, technique, THEN style. They're in that order for a reason."

Sweat pours off his forehead, shining beet red, just like the rest of his face. Seven hours of no-holds-barred foxtrot has begun to take its toll. Her own skin pulses hot with her racing heartbeat, her lungs nearly unable to keep up with her rant.

The writer clenches his jaw, hands fisted on his hips, but as he leans in, something flashes across his face and he deflates, letting out a noisy breath as he turns and walks to the wall of windows overlooking downtown LA.

"Fine. No flourishes."

His retreat gives her pause. Just over a week into lessons, they have had more than their fair share of shouting matches, and neither has been so quick to back down.

A pinch of guilt softens her tone as she steps up behind him.

"Look, Mr. Castle-"

"Would you please stop calling me that?" he barks, still facing out the window.

Her eyes flick along the jagged rooftops, landing on his reflection, staring directly back at her.

"Rick, then, I know I can come across as a hard ass sometimes."

A puff of air blows the sweat-soaked curl off his forehead, and she could swear he parrots her "sometimes" back at her. She ignores it and continues.

"At the risk of further inflating your already massive ego, I'll admit you've surprised me. For an amateur, you know your way around a dance floor."

Resting his hands on the barre, he lunges forward to stretch his calf muscle, breaking off their staring contest in the glass.

"My mother has spent her whole career on Broadway. Did you honestly think I could have escaped childhood without dance lessons?"

Dance lessons are one thing. What he has is actual talent. But her willingness to increase his innate cockiness has its limits. She fists a hand on her hip and leans into it, coating her answer in disinterest.

"Honestly? I assume everyone is an amateur. Job requirement."

"I hope it was a pleasant surprise at least."

That first day, after she had recovered from the shock of her immediate physical and athletic attraction, he had led her through a very passable foxtrot. Nothing that would win the mirror ball, but it had been better than ninety percent of grooms after six months of lessons for their wedding reception.

Since then, she has been forced to step up her game. Crafting a legitimately artistic piece, one that might challenge her as well as the writer, has sent tingles singing through her body every morning as she steps onto the dance floor, her brain buzzing with ideas. She remembers the feeling from those first years as a professional, when every step had been fresh and new, when she had still felt there were new things to learn.

Of course, none of that joy has seeped into her interactions with her pupil. He still deserves to be taken down a peg; unfortunately that is proving harder than she originally anticipated. Narrowing her eyes at the rippling muscles of his back, flexing against the cotton of his shirt, she adds a tinge of annoyance to her tone when she finally answers him.

"I had to re-choreograph the whole routine." He straightens at her sharp admission, turning to face her, his nearness amplified by the way his pupils have blown black and wide. Her tongue has turned to cotton, but she swallows nothing and continues without stepping back. "The first version was designed to keep a bumbling idiot from breaking any bones, especially mine."

His eyes flick down to her lips just before the gravel of his words rumbles out.

"And this version?"

It takes her brain longer than it should to process his question, but the thought brings a lopsided grin to her face before her answer spills out into the crackling air between them.

"This version just might win us a trophy."

Hours later, she cuts the music at the end of their first truly clean run of the routine, minus the lifts. Her brows have just raised at the time: 9:15 PM, when the nearness of his voice makes her startle.

"You wanna get some dinner?"

Every night this week he has begged off at seven, saying he had plans with one or another of his redheads. Turning, she nearly collides with the dark patch of perspiration that has been enlarging across the chest of his blue t-shirt.

It matches his eyes.

"Uh, no, I have plans."

The lie comes out of nowhere. Cutting her gaze left, she zeroes in on her bag, sidestepping the salty-sharp scent of his overheated skin in favor of digging out her keys.

"Another time, then."

"Sure."

Standing at her kitchen counter an hour later, hair still dripping from the hottest shower she could tolerate, she chomps down on the ice cold ribs of Romaine lettuce and speaks toward her phone, propped on the counter nearby.

"Mother, I am not becoming a lesbian."

"Because you know your dad and I would support you-"

Kate grounds out a sigh and puts down her salad to brace her palms on either side of the phone.

"Mom, quit it. I told him 'no' because he's already dating three women, two of whom he brought with him from New York. The man's picture shows up in gossip magazines with a new starlet on his arm every other month. I have no desire to be his latest arm candy."

"All I know is, Richard Castle, the man whose books you pre-order online and then stay up all night to read the day they arrive, is now your dance partner, and _you_ turned him down for a date. You, who make fun of me for reading _Soap Opera Digest_ in the checkout line but have obviously stooped to stalking the man in _People Magazine_; you who once missed a rehearsal to get his autograph. If _you_ said 'no' to dinner with Richard Castle, then there is something else going on here."

"There's nothing else going on. I don't date my dance partners."

"Except for Malik."

Snatching the phone from her counter, she clicks off speaker and storms to her window, attempting to glare through the seven miles of buildings and trees between her apartment and her parents' house in Pasadena.

"Dad, are you still there? Can you please poke her or something? She should know better."

Her father's voice comes through tinny and hollow, words punctuated by the occasional creak of the wooden staircase that always thwarted her teenage attempts at sneaking out.

"I'm way too smart to get involved in this one, Katie. I'm going up to bed. Good luck with your new boyfriend."

This time the noise that comes out of her mouth can only be described as a growl. The chuckle from her mother brings heat to Kate's cheeks.

"Just for that I'm hanging up the phone now. Call me when you know how many tickets you need for next week."

"Ooooo, we get to meet him!"

Kate clicks off, longing for the days of phones with handsets that could be slammed down.

# * # * # * #

"But Kate, it has sparkles."

Rick Castle has a decidedly whiny streak, but until now, she has only been able to relate it to low caffeine intake. She has no tolerance for whining four days before they dance live on air.

"Yes, it has sparkles. My dress has more sparkles. I thought you said your mother was on Broadway? You should be glad there aren't feathers."

Her dress, fitted like a second skin and with one of the assistant costume designers currently attached to the hem, is a sweeping, classic line, demure by the show's standards. But they are dancing foxtrot to Sinatra, so when she had met with the designers the Tuesday before she had figured some class was in order.

"But what about my ruggedly handsome image?"

Her eye rolling muscles have built up endurance over the past 2 weeks.

"Ignore him, Randall. Keep going," she says, motioning to the man adjusting her partner's trousers.

Rick cranes his neck to inspect his derriere in the mirror.

"At least there's no Swarovski on my ass."

No, that ass is pretty enough just as it is.

Kate cringes at the stray thought sneaking up from her subconscious, but covers her self-disgust with a slight shake of her head.

"I'm going to adjust the jacket so it doesn't pull across your shoulders. Is there any other change you would like made before Monday's dress rehearsal, Mr. Castle?"

"Other than nixing the sparkles-" he sends a hopeful glance in her direction and pulls a grimace at her answering glare, "no, no other changes. It's not nearly as… spandexy as I had imagined. I might even be able to wear this out, if not for the glittery bits."

Spandexy?

Since the day he arrived, he has been treating this whole thing like a trip to summer camp: an amusing diversion, but he would never want to live here.

Dance is her life, and he has no right to belittle it.

Her blood flashes to the boiling point, the heat sharpening her words as she answers.

"Don't sound so amazed, _Mr._ _Castle_. Contrary to your preconceived notions, not everything about ballroom dance is garish and tasteless."

The look that washes over his face starts out as harsh as her words, but as she finishes, the lowered brow softens, and the tight press of his lips melts.

"I didn't-"

The slap of the changing room curtain closing behind her cuts off his words, but it cannot stop the sting of the tears that spring inexplicably to her eyes.

Richard Castle is an egotistical, self-centered jackass. Richard Castle is a womanizing playboy. But Richard Castle is also her partner. And despite Kate's best efforts, his words have found their way through her thick dancer's skin - and cut straight to her heart.

# * # * # * #

Author's note: Thanks as always to Alex (Caffinate-me) for beta and psychiatry, and to E for allowing me to use her beautiful art for the cover. Another #CastleFanficMonday! Hope everyone checks out all the stories published today. See my twitter or tumblr for links:

Twitter: Kate_Christie_  
Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	3. Chapter 3

"Quit pulling on your collar."

Castle releases the razor-crisp, Swarovski-dusted corner of fabric and clenches his fingers into a fist, eyes flicking in her direction in the lighted mirror.

"Sorry."

Despite the arctic temperatures backstage at the ABC studio, beads of sweat multiply at her partner's hairline. Castle has not stopped pacing since they left the makeup chairs an hour before, and now his fingers have moved on to clutch the edges of his charcoal grey suit jacket, knuckles blanched white with the force of his grip. If he wrinkles that jacket an hour before show time, Randall will have both their hides.

"You're nervous."

The breath that he releases at her comment nearly wheezes as it rushes out of his lungs.

"Who, me? No, I don't get nervous. Energized."

His hands pop open into starbursts on either side of his face, but his eyes are still glazed, aimed at the clock above her head.

"Bullshit."

That wins her a narrow-eyed glare. At least it's eye contact. Standing from her perch on the edge of the vanity, she bends one knee behind her and reaches down to grab her toe, stretching her hip flexor and quadriceps. Maybe he will follow her example and work out some of that nervous energy by warming up.

"You should have warned me you get stage fright. You didn't have a problem in our blocking rehearsal."

Castle pauses halfway to the door and clamps his hand over the back of a chair; head dipping to answer, his voice is stiff and edgy, aimed directly to the floor.

"That's because the only people there were stagehands and us."

Shit. He is nervous. Shutting her eyes, Kate sucks in a breath as Flash Greggson's face appears behind her lids. A prickly, swirling weight sinks low in her gut. The running back had shown her that same damn deer-in-the-headlights look… right before he dropped her. Clenching her jaw, she shoves the memory aside and opens her eyes.

Not again.

"We should warm up. Get you out of your head, back into your body."

His spine remains ramrod straight, fingertips digging into the padded back of the chair.

"We already warmed up."

"But that was before hair and makeup and costumes and all that sitting still getting pretty – sorry - _ruggedly handsome_."

Kate reaches into her bag, untangles the headphones from around her iPod, and sets it in the speaker dock plugged in on the counter beneath one of the lighted mirrors. Scrolling to the joint playlist that had resulted from three separate yelling matches in which they had defamed each other's musical tastes, she sets the volume at a moderate level, hoping not to bother the other pairs in dressing rooms on either side of theirs.

Using the back of the room's other chair for balance, she begins their barre routine, one arm reaching out and up, then stretching forward toward her partner.

The music cues his body to react, and within an 8-count he has synced up with her place in the port de bras.

Fifteen minutes later, both are sweating, but in a productive, loose-muscled way that has Castle smirking as he goads her.

"Do it, Beckett. You know you want a rematch."

"My abs have nothing to prove, Writer-Boy."

"Oh, that's not what you said yesterday, Ms. My-Dancer-Core-Can-Take-Your-Gym-Rat-Six-Pack-Any-Day."

Crap. She had actually said that.

Since that day last week in the costuming session when he had so thoughtlessly dismissed her entire profession as spandex and sparkles, she _might_ have thrown out a few more derogatory remarks about men with too much money and nothing worthwhile to do with their time than were entirely necessary. Castle has taken the hazing well, even blinked those contrite, puppy-dog eyes at her a few times as they were leaving rehearsals, but she has managed to redirect, not wanting to admit she let the self-conscious chink in her armor show for even a moment.

Kate Beckett graduated Magna Cum Laude from Stanford with a double major in theater and performance, and philosophy. She tore up her acceptance letter to Stanford's law school when she and her college dance partner won their category in an international ballroom competition at the end of senior year. Since then, she has never looked back. But Richard Castle serves as quite the mirror - coming in as an outsider, his natural curiosity spurs him to dissect every detail of the microcosm of ballroom dance. And in turn, dissect her - every insecurity and flaw she has ever found within herself and her profession has been examined under his mystery writer's magnifying glass over the past two weeks. She still refuses to contemplate why his opinion of her - her profession - even matters.

What should matter is exactly what Randall will do to her if she gets this dress sweaty doing 500 crunches less than an hour before they go on-air. The look on her partner's previously chalky-pale face, now flushed with the adrenaline of a challenge, makes up her mind. Anything to keep him from going under again.

"Fine, but-"

Thankfully, her acquiescence is interrupted by a syncopated series of knocks at the door. Castle's face blooms in the truest smile she has seen all night, and he rushes to tug on the handle of the entrance to their over-sized closet of a dressing room.

"Come in, come in."

"Daddy!"

A petite girl, maybe 11 or 12, rushes in, fiery hair flying, and crushes Castle in a hug. A second guest files in right behind, her emerald green satin pant suit setting off the glossy copper notes of her chin-length curls.

"Alexis, darling, let your father breathe; you did just see him at the airport two hours ago. Hello, Richard, oh and you, gorgeous creature, must be the famous Katherine. Oh, you are every bit as lovely and refined as my son described."

The older woman reaches out a hand and gives Kate no choice but to accept the firm but warm grip of her bejeweled fingers.

Kate manages to keep the smile plastered across her face as they exchange pleasantries despite the twist and flutter in her gut.

Two redheads.

Kate has known about Castle's famous mother and young daughter, but Alexis Harper Castle, as the pre-teen is introducing herself with a surprisingly strong handshake, has never appeared in any of the publicity photos Kate has seen in the grocery aisle. And though she knows Martha Rodgers' name as a long-time Broadway theatre personality, his mother has not won any roles worthy of an article in _Playbill Magazine_ in recent years.

Two redheads. From New York.

His daughter and his mother.

Which does beg the question-

"So where's your mother, Pumpkin?"

Martha gives her son a sidelong glance out of her granddaughter's line of sight as she deadpans, "Out front talking to the 'talent,' where else?"

"Mom said you don't need her to wish you good luck when you already have looks and talent."

Either Castle has picked up one of Kate's habits in the past two weeks, or he routinely has cause to roll his eyes about his daughter's mother's antics, because the move looks well rehearsed.

Holding a flexed hand up to direct his voice above his daughter's head, Castle stage whispers to his mother.

"Have I mentioned lately how much I love New York?"

Martha presses her hands over Alexis' ears in an exaggerated rearrangement of the girl's hair.

"You only have to see her while we're here."

His face twists in a grimace.

"Remind me why I invited her tonight?"

Martha smiles down at her granddaughter.

"Because you want Meredith's movie career to take off and lead to wild, and long-term success in Hollywood."

Alexis arches one eyebrow.

"Yeah, Dad, I mean, I love visiting Mom, but there's no way I'd have the energy to raise both of you back in New York."

That earns a surprised cackle from Martha, and Kate does her best to hide her bemused smile with a swipe of an imaginary wisp of hair behind her ear. Castle throws an arm around the shoulders of each redhead and plants a kiss at the crown of Alexis' head.

"I'm doomed to be surrounded by beautiful women who are smarter than I am."

Their gazes meet and lock as he finishes, setting Kate's heart to thudding harshly in her chest for no good reason except that for one millisecond there is a flash of something that _includes_ her in that statement.

Kate blinks and shakes her head as Martha chimes in.

"Not the worst fate I could imagine, darling." She leans in to give her son an air kiss near his cheek. "Break a leg, Richard. Let's let these two finish getting ready, Alexis."

They exit with hugs and well wishes, leaving Kate alone with a completely different partner from the one she has been dancing with for the past two weeks.

"So those are the redheads."

Not a question, but he answers anyway.

"Two of them. My ex-wife, Meredith, is the third. Not surprised she stayed out front to schmooze. Her career has always been her top priority. She's great with Alexis, don't get me wrong, but family was never really her calling in life."

Castle's words trail off as he looks to the door, unreadable gaze sticking a little too long. His features bloom back to their usual mirth with a deep breath, and he turns to face her once again.

"Speaking of family, is yours here, too? Or is this old hat for them now that you've done it twice before?"

That pulls a chuckle from her.

"My parents will be here. For them it never gets old – I just hope they don't have signs this time."

"Seriously? I thought they were both lawyers? Suits and briefcases and sensible shoes?"

The smile erupts across her face without her permission, warmth bubbling up from deep in her chest despite her efforts to stay impassive.

"At work, maybe, but when it comes to my dancing, they turn into complete goofs. The first season they brought a bouquet flowers after every episode."

Chancing a glance in his direction, she sees him blanche just before a sharp knock sounds against the door.

Castle opens it just a crack, his hand shooting through the gap shooing whomever it is back down the hall, but the person in question persists.

"Delivery for Ms. Beckett."

Stepping up behind her partner, Kate pries the door from his hand and swings it open to find one of the backstage crew hefting the largest vase of tropical flowers she has ever seen.

Charlie looks at her expectantly, and she shuts her loosely hanging jaw as she steps back to make way for him.

As Charlie sets the small jungle on the vanity and ducks out, Castle tries to slip out behind him.

"I'm just going to use the—"

"Hold it, Writer-Boy."

Kate gently picks through the fragrant, chunky red ginger stalks and bright orange birds of paradise looking for a card. Buried in a mass of ornately wrought, spiraling, speckled orchids, she finds an embossed linen rectangle naming one of the high-end florists near the studio. On the back is scrawled a single line of text.

"Ginger's got nothin' on you. –R. C."

The blush overtakes every pore from the tops of her ears to the tips of her freshly manicured toes. Even her snark has deserted her.

Before whatever inelegant thanks she might have managed can escape the desert of her mouth, the call comes from down the hall:

"Castle and Beckett, five minutes."

# * # * # * #

Author's note: Thank you to Alex for beta and to everyone who has reviewed and waited patiently for this chapter. Your words got me through a couple of really rough patches in the past 2 weeks. You guys will never know how much they mean. -KC

Twitter: Kate_Christie_  
Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	4. Chapter 4

Bluish-white light from the stage reflects back at her from Castle's eyes as he stands beside her, entranced by the flickering images on the wall-sized screen. The walk up from the dressing room has left him without his usual effervescence - not even a snicker as they passed the busty blond reality TV star in her leopard print pleather cat suit.

Kate never watches the footage they play to tell the backstory of the week leading up to every performance. Rehearsal is just that: practice. The audience is here to see them perform. The only purpose the snippets serve is to stir up drama.

So-and-so strained a muscle two days before the show; will she be able to perform? Melodramatic mountains out of molehills.

Of course this first one is Castle's introduction, so they spend time talking about him and his life. She sneaks a glance at the screen and sees a shot of him on a red carpet. He must have attended a premiere of something since arriving in L. A., because he is smiling for the cameras with a redhead on his arm she has not yet met. Must be Meredith.

Tom Bergeron's voice dips as he begins to wrap up his narration, saying something inane about spinning tales and tails spinning, and she leans in to try to catch Castle's eye.

"Hey."

Gary, the stage manager, fingers the mouthpiece on his headset and tips his head toward them, but her partner is still frozen in his spot.

"Almost time, Castle."

Still no reaction except for the bunch of one muscle at the hinge of his jaw. He is a statue, stare gone completely blank. That weight is back in her gut, this time shooting out icy-cold tendrils of panic.

_What if he won't go on?_

The lights dim for their entrance as Tom gives his final introduction.

"Will this mystery novelist be able to write a happy ending for his first chapter in the book of ballroom?"

She grips Castle's hand where it hangs limp and cold at his side, gets no response. Stepping into his chest, she stands on tiptoe, stretching to her full height, until her lips are nearly pressed to his ear.

"Snap out of it, Rick. I need my partner."

He shivers against her.

One hard blink and his ribcage expands into her chest, his fingers clamping strong and sure around her hand. By the time his eyes find hers, the first strains of Sinatra are wafting out from the band.

His voice rises up, warm and mellow.

"Hey, they're playing our song."

Whatever fear had him locked down melts before her eyes, a smirk growing from one corner of his mouth until the smile overtakes his whole face. By some miracle, her Rick Castle stands before her again.

Then he is stepping back, leading her out onto the stage just as they have rehearsed, all charm and charisma and polished flair.

The lights come up as he spins her out, frame locked, hand placed exactly right.

The smile that splits her face is not for the cameras.

A series of fancy footwork comes next, something they spent days tripping over but have practiced until she swears they could do it in their sleep.

Not a wobble. Not a hitch. Just a broad chest and rock-steady arms that are actually leading her. He still struggles with taking charge, and she knows it is mostly her fault for needing to be in control when dancing with an amateur, but he is improving, and so far, from the sound of the cheers from the crowd, they are both selling his lead.

The lead singer is waxing poetic about spring on Jupiter and Mars when Castle pulls her in for their series of twinkles, progressing across the stage with hands meeting and catching every third step. His eyes are only for her every time they face in, that blue sparking off the sapphire of her dress and the azure glow from the stage lights, set to give them a moon and stars backdrop.

As always, the audience is a blur, out beyond the edges of her vision, but as she spots a series of quick turns, her line of sight lands on the judges' table, and she cannot help but notice all three are practically beaming. As much as Len could ever beam, anyway.

Reaching back as the lyrics ask to hold her hand, Rick's hand is there, steadying her balance for the swirling fan kick that shows off her extension and the gossamer flourish of her gown. They separate and she blows him an exaggerated kiss to match the words, and he catches it and winks back mirth overflowing.

A quick grapevine has them locked together again, and she hopes he remembers the right angle for his upper body, because the exaggerated pose is the one thing about the foxtrot that did not come naturally to him, and if she is executing her part, she cannot assess his. The judges or the footage will catch it, so she lets it go and focuses on her foot placement for the next pass in front of the judges.

They are in the home stretch, a few bars from their dip at the finish, when she catches the gleam in Castle's eye. Stepping in for the one basic, simple lift that she finally added to the routine over the weekend, once she had convinced herself there was no possible way he could drop her from it, he raises both eyebrows at her meaningfully.

The shoulder glide is smooth, just as they rehearsed, but as he takes her weight across his hip, he whispers in her ear.

"Do the death drop."

As he sets her gently on the floor, she hisses through her smile.

"No."

It had been late on Saturday night, and he had been pestering her all day to show him "the death drop" version of their ending dip. He had seen it on some ballroom dance movie, apparently, and then tried to flatter her into teaching him by telling her _she_ should be on the big screen, how she would be the next Ginger Rogers, bring back the golden age of dance on film. More to make him shut up with his whining than because she was actually flattered, she had finally acquiesced. They had already perfected the more subtle variation of the ending; what was the harm in letting him toss her around a bit in rehearsal with the springy floor and the extra mats spread out over it? He had practically vibrated with glee.

The move is not complex, as long as both dancers know exactly what to do and have perfect timing. Rather than a standard dip, which leaves most of her weight supported by her own legs and core, the drop requires her to trust in Castle to keep her body from landing flat on the floor. Holding only her hands, he must let her fall straight back, every muscle taut, body flat as a plank except for one knee, which she bends to allow the ball of that foot to balance her weight. When done right, meaning fast and sharp, it makes for a seemingly death-defying ending.

Twelve tries later, and to her astonishment, they had it down cold, and not one time had her body even touched the mat. But still she had refused to put it in the routine. Adrenaline and nerves and all sorts of costume malfunctions could sabotage the move in the actual performance. It was her call; the simple dip went into the final version. It was what they had rehearsed since Saturday.

Distracted by her lapse into memory, Kate's toe nearly catches on their underarm turn, yet after he steadies her, he tries again to sway her as she comes in close.

"Come on, we can do it."

Kate hopes the daggers shooting from her eyes look like sparks of romance to the cameras rather than barely contained rage.

"I said no."

Ice shoots through her veins when he simply narrows his eyes and flicks one brow in challenge.

The real danger is if they are not in sync. If she goes in doing one move and he tries to force the other, she could pull him down on top of her and they will both end up on the floor. Or worse, he could lose his grip and drop her flat on her back, head first into the shiny wood floor.

Damn him.

"_In other words, please be true…"_

Two steps turn her into his chest, arms wrapped around herself, and he sets her up for the death drop. Either she goes along and prays he remembers every nuance from three days earlier, or she breaks his hold entirely and ad-libs something that will not get them killed, but might get them kicked off in round one. Again.

"_In other words-"_

Damn him.

The shuts her eyes, takes a breath, and lets go.

"_I love you."_

When the last trilling notes of their song sound through the speakers, she opens her eyes to find herself alive, and not on the floor. The glare of the lights directly above them blinds her to anything other than the silhouette of her partner's broad shoulders looming over her, but as he lifts her, she takes in his smile, and the rows of audience members all on their feet applauding.

Castle spins her out to curtsey and takes his own nodding bow, and as he passes her across to the opposite side to repeat the gesture she growls through her pasted-on smile.

"I'm going to kill you."

Wasting no time checking for a reaction, she leads him back to their hosts and the judges, hoping that none of the professionals has noticed their knockdown, drag-out fight.

The expression on Rick's face as he faces the panel of three deflates a bit, though not to the stone-faced panic of backstage. Bergeron babbles on about something that Castle fields stiffly, but she tunes in as Bruno erupts with an exaggerated fling of both arms into the air.

"Mister Castle! I can see why you sell so many copies of your mystery novels. You have thrown the biggest plot twist of all into this competition! The Master of the Macabre may yet be our Master of the Mirrorball!"

Castle blushes scarlet and allows a hint of his earlier smile to creep across his lips, head dipping.

The fact that Bruno is right makes Rick's sudden shyness all the more adorable.

But he is not adorable. On that dance floor just now he was stupid and unprofessional and cocky and-

"Brilliant."

Wait, what, now? Len Goodman is-

"I hate to admit it, after watching that film I was sure you were a pretty boy, out here to prance on red carpets for the paparazzi, but I was wrong. Your posture could use a little work and the arms have some room for improvement, but overall, Mr. Castle, I am pleasantly surprised."

Carrie Ann pipes up to round out the comments with a smirk and a twinkle.

"Does it feel hot in here to anyone else?" The crowd gives a round of cheers and Jim Beckett's signature whistle draws her attention. Her parents are on their feet, applauding immediately behind the row of three redheads. "Sparks were flying out there, you two. And Rick, don't listen to Len; I thought your arms were more than fine."

A sideways glance reveals her partner winking - actually winking - at the perky female judge.

They are shuffled off and quizzed by the bubbly co-host, cameras running until the judges are ready to show their scores. Because of their spot last in the line-up, Kate has no idea about anyone else's scores. She has been too focused on her partner's stage fright and keeping them both from ending up on the floor to watch any of the other couples. At this point she will be thrilled with anything but last place, and even that would be better than last time, considering that tonight, at least her tailbone is intact.

"Carrie Ann Inaba."

"9!"

Wow, the woman is _seriously_ flirting.

"Len Goodman."

"8."

Kate's heart takes a somersault, landing somewhere down near her stomach, because an 8 from Len in the first round?

"Bruno Tonioli."

"9!"

Her eyebrows hit her hairline and suddenly she is in the air. Castle lets out a whoop as he spins her in a circle, forcing her to cling to the bulge of his biceps for dear life.

Even her fury cannot stand up to the infectious joy rolling off her partner's face, and her anger cracks open into a grin as he sets her on her feet.

Oh God, she might actually cry.

Samantha Harris breaks in as Kate blinks hard to keep the moisture at bay.

"That's a total of 26, which puts you in a tie for first place-" A wave over the co-hosts shoulder pulls her focus, and a alarm bell sounds in her subconscious when her eyes land on leopard print pleather and the smiling face of her ex-boyfriend "-with Brandi and Malik!"

Of course.

# * # * # * #

Author's Note: First of all, you are all amazing. Thank you for the kind words. Alex, you are, as always, my rockstar beta and best ballroom cheerleader. I couldn't do it without you. Next I need to thank two specific readers for their technical input: one-village-idiot and CoffeeCup218 have been coaching me through the worlds of ballroom and Dancing with the Stars, and though they should receive NO blame for my mistakes, they get all the credit for anything I get right in those two realms. Thanks again!

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	5. Chapter 5

The face peering back from the steel-and-slate framed mirror has cracks.

Rivulets of sweat have encroached from her hairline, leaving eddies of powder and concealer in their wake. The razor edge of her eyeliner now feathers into the subtle fan of creases flanking each eye.

For a dancer, she is on the wrong side of twenty-five. Lucky so far, in that she has suffered no major injuries, but luck runs out for everyone eventually.

Kate pulls in a breath and dabs a tissue at the worst of the smudges.

The makeup never used to have places to collect.

Every time she leaves the stage makeup on for more than their camera time, Kate vows never to leave her dressing room without a clean face again. But because she had been heading straight to the after-party at one of the chicest dining spots in easy driving distance from CBS Television City, she had not wanted to take the time to put on another face.

One vodka and soda and all the celery sticks from two trays of crudites and she is already eying the time. They have rehearsal at nine A. M. tomorrow.

Speaking of "they," her other half has disappeared. Her mother's smug little smile flashes in her brain. Not that kind of half. The kind of half who holds the key to her future in ballroom dancing on television.

Exiting the restroom, she scans the crowd for any sign of redheads. Meredith, it turns out, has friends in common with one of the DWTS producers, so after a polite chat about their respective neighborhoods and several high-end boutiques Kate has never set foot inside, Castle's ex-wife had kissed Alexis and flitted off with a gaggle of network creative types for clubs with bottle service.

Martha and Alexis, on the other hand, have been nothing but gracious and engaged in every conversation about the show and ballroom dance in general. She makes another sweep of the crowd in vain, and just before she takes off toward the dessert spread, the last spot she remembers seeing her parents, a hand cups her elbow. A broad chest presses against her back as a thick and familiar forearm wraps around her waist.

"Hello, Katie."

His voice melts, warm and familiar, over the sensitive skin behind her ear.

He always could find her spots.

"Mal, congratulations."

The lanky limbs squeeze once before they untangle, and Malik presses a peck to her cheek as he circles to stand beside her. He has always been physical in his shows of friendship as well as other less innocent forms of affection. Somehow that has never bothered her before.

"I was surprised to see Bruno handing out 9s on the first week," she says, as she takes in her ex-boyfriend, still glistening in his costume and spray tan. God, she does have good taste where looks are concerned.

"Well, it wasn't the first time, but I don't think he's given two out on the first week before."

Malik must have received Bruno's 9 last season, starting a trend that led to the Mirror Ball at the close of Season Two with his former U. S. Olympic figure skating partner.

Kate arches an eyebrow in acknowledgement and tucks an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear.

Her tie with Malik tonight for first place after the judges' scores should not have been a surprise. Malik had been her dance partner for a reason back before they both joined the cast of Dancing with the Stars.

"Speaking of 9s, that writer of yours is not bad."

Her body cants toward his unconsciously, in spite of the year and a half that has passed since their break-up, the mass of him drawing her in as he shoots her a sparkling grin. Kate stops herself before she can grin back. That infectious sex appeal had been their downfall, the sting of which she recalls in a voice that sounds remarkably like her mother's. Straightening up, she focuses instead on answering Malik's comment, glancing around once more for its subject without success as she does so.

"He has a stage actress for a mom. Grew up backstage with the chorus girls."

That pulls a knowing look.

"Ah, a Broadway boy."

The rising inflection on "Broadway" has a clear implication, to which she responds with a roll of her eyes.

"He's not gay, Mal."

That brings a smirk to his lips.

"So you've collected evidence to the contrary? Quick work, Katie."

She glares down his attempt at a congratulatory fist bump, but before she can deny anything, his partner appears from the direction of the bar with a fruity-looking frozen drink in one hand.

"Speaking of partners, Bambi's pretty good, too."

The blonde in question, still wearing what there is of her costume, steps up behind him, her fingers splaying at Malik's waist as she steps into his side.

"Brandi was head cheerleader, and she started her own dance company in college."

Kate nearly sprains an eye muscle suppressing the roll. Malik is practically glowing with pride.

"That's great. You two look like you're getting along."

Getting it on is more like it, but Kate keeps the stage smile firmly in place.

"It's all so intense, you know, spending so many hours together and being forced to be so in sync, physically, mentally. It's sink or swim, wouldn't you say?"

Though her hands are all over Malik, the blonde does not lisp or simper. Her insight is, remarkably, sound. Kate finds a kernel of unanticipated sincerity spilling out into her answer.

"Dance partners have to be connected in every way possible. The stronger, the better. Too much is at stake for anything less. And yes, I think partners either make that connection right away, or they don't." A tingle goes up her spine at the memory of the first time Rick's wide palm had caught and held against her shoulder blade, his other hand sparking as it met hers.

A hand waving over Bambi's - Brandi's - shoulder catches her attention, and Kate quickly excuses herself to rendezvous with her parents near the mirrorball ice sculpture.

"We thought we'd lost you, Katie," her father's cheeks draw up as she steps in to close off the third side of their little family triangle.

"Not lost, just briefly waylaid."

"By Malik and that lovely, statuesque blonde. Someone said she was on a reality TV show? I'm not sure what that means, but she's very pretty, and she's obviously had some training." Her mother's eyes slant in the direction of the couple in question. "Not nearly as much as you, of course," her big brown eyes soften on meeting those of her daughter.

"Oh, but she was a cheerleader," Kate gives an exaggeratedly perky bob of her head as she paints on her worst stage smarm.

Her father chuffs at the family joke. Baseball does not require cheerleaders. The breed, as a whole, is therefore unnecessary.

"Speaking of training, your writer-boy seems to have had some training, himself." Her mother's smirk is not even subtle.

"His mother was on Broadway. He's decent. But he's cocky as hell."

Johanna slides a hand around her back, guiding her, and in turn her father, out onto the patio. As the burst of September heat hits her now-chilled skin, something inside her relaxes. The facade of performance is slipping away with her family around her. Her mom slides a frosty glass of champagne into her hand and continues, dragging Kate back to attention as she sips gingerly at the golden bubbles.

"And his confidence scares you. But he's not that football goon, Katie. He cares about you. I'm your mother - I can tell."

Kate takes a deep drag of the crisp, effervescent wine and lowers her brows.

"How? How can you tell that from seeing him dance with me for two verses of Sinatra on a TV soundstage? His mother is an actress. She probably taught him that, too."

"No one can teach a man the way he looks at his daughter."

Like the sun rises and sets in her eyes. Kate has seen it, too. It reminds her of the look her own dad has right now, unintended smile on his face as he observes the women he loves bickering amicably.

"We spent most of the past half hour talking to them. Alexis is really a lovely girl - so smart, so open and kind. And Martha is a kick. This town is full of actresses, but the real ones stand on a Manhattan stage and play to the rear balcony eight shows a week."

Martha _is_ a kick. She has rapidly become a sort of artistic hero to Kate. But if the Castle family just spent half an hour with her parents, why aren't they here now?

"Did they leave?"

The indulgent, half-lidded glance from her mother is supposed to be her answer, but Kate will not accept it.

"When? How?" Kate eyes them, the irony of her little interrogation nudging her forward.

"Just before you came over." Her mom arches one eyebrow as she answers, her father following right on her heels with his part, his voice a little too nonchalant.

"Yeah something about Alexis keeping her East Coast bedtime..." Even he does not look particularly convinced by his statement. Something shimmers under the surface of this conversation, and it has nothing to do with the 80-plus degree heat.

"What aren't you telling me?"

They both answer too quickly and in perfect unison.

"Nothing."

"Nothing."

Her parents may not be in show business, but they are both lawyers; they should have better poker faces.

"Dad?"

"Don't look at me, I didn't even notice at the time."

"Notice what? Mother - spill."

The older woman takes a breath, lets it out in a short sigh as the crisp white linen of her suit jacket slouches.

"He might have seen you snuggling with Malik."

Kate's eyes widen as her blood pressure spikes.

"Snuggling? We were not snuggling."

Her father chimes in again, possibly to draw his daughter's murderous gaze off his wife, a gleam in his eye and an innocuous lilt to his voice.

"Canoodling?"

His plot works, as she is now tipping her head and scrunching her brow in his direction.

"What does 'canoodling' even mean, Dad?"

Her mother must finally hit her breaking point with the nonsense and plows into full prosecution mode, glass of champagne taking the usual role of her index finger punctuating her words.

"Flirting. You were flirting with your ex-partner slash boyfriend directly in your current partner's line of sight. That gorgeous, New York Times bestselling writer took one look at Lover Boy with his arms wrapped around you like a vine of Pinot Noir, his 1000-watt smile nuzzling your ear, and Richard Castle's eyes turned absolutely green. Thirty seconds later, he made some lame excuse about the time, gathered up his mother and daughter and bolted out of here so fast your father and I had whiplash from watching them go."

The sudden silence echoes, and thankfully the patio crowd is sparse and mainly consists of one sprawling table of smokers whose table is overflowing with empty glasses, voices laughing loudly enough not to notice her mother's little speech.

"I think what your mother means to say is, Rick looked a bit surprised to see you so cozy with Malik, and he didn't wait around to see that new blonde partner slide up to take your place."

"You should call him, Katie. You at least owe him an explanation about Malik and -"

"Enough. I'm a grown woman; he's my partner for a stupid TV show dance contest, not my boyfriend; I do not owe him an explanation of anything, certainly not anything related to my personal life; and I do not need relationship advice from my parents."

Both of them deflate slightly, and her father at least mumbles something like an apology, but there is a defiant narrowness to her mother's eyes. Kate does not have time for this drama.

"Okay, I've got rehearsal early tomorrow. I'm going to head home." Ignoring the loaded look from her mother, Kate leans in, kisses her mom on the cheek and passes her the nearly full flute of champagne, then gives her father a one-armed hug.

"Thank you for coming to watch. You've got your same tickets for tomorrow, if you want to use them." She gives a wave and backs toward the patio exit, hoping to avoid another run-in with Malik. Her parents have ditched the glasses on the smokers' table and are rushing to follow her out.

"Of course we want to watch you and Rick win the first round," her mother practically beams.

Kate rounds the short fence separating the seating area from the parking lot just ahead of them.

"We're not going to win. Bambi - Brandi - whatever her name is - probably has a legion of phoning fans clogging the voting lines right now. Besides, tomorrow is all about who's going home. They don't really have winners every week."

As if on cue, her father pulls out both her parents' cell phones and waggles them, passing one to her mom as they reach their car.

Well, that's two votes for her team, at least.

As they exchange final goodnights and Kate slides her satin-clad thighs onto the baking upholstery of her front seat, she shuts her eyes against the rush of memory. She is standing in the midnight black of the studio, the scope of her vision only as wide as the brightly-lit tip of her nose, under those tight pin spot lights, with almost a foot of space yawning between herself and Flash. They are "in jeopardy" for half of the stupid episode. By the final minute of the broadcast, her stomach is knotted to the point of pain, dropping to her 3-inch leather-bottomed silver-sparkled shoes at the sound of Tom's conciliatory tone.

"And the first couple to be eliminated from Season Two of Dancing with the Stars is…"

That damn dramatic pause for emphasis is the longest four seconds of her life.

"Flash and Kate."

It had been a stupid dance contest on TV, yet somehow being the first one voted off had been a fist to the gut. The moments afterward, the montage of their rehearsal and performance projected on the stadium-sized screen behind the consoling hugs from the other teams, had all been all a blur, but hearing her name announced alongside that lug's is burned crystal clear onto her memory.

Those same neurons have fired with every mistake, every near miss with Castle.

Opening her eyes on a deep inhale, she turns the key in the ignition and shifts into reverse, glancing in her mirror before backing out of her space and easing from the lot into the spider web of L. A. traffic. No matter how badly the voting goes tonight, with a top score from the judges, she and Castle will not be under those lights tomorrow.

Her fists clench around the faux-leather of her steering wheel until bone blanches through the skin over her knuckles.

And if she has anything to do with it, they never will.

# * # * # * #

"Don't let it bother you, Castle. It doesn't matter who wins every week: what matters is that we don't come in last."

Her partner is half-heartedly scrubbing at his stage makeup with one of the removal cloths stocked in their dressing rooms. The pouty frown he has carried since they were out of sight of the cameras and the other dancers is glaring back in full force in the lighted mirror.

"I know, I know. But we were so good! Alexis and Mother both said our dance was better than all the others. Even Meredith sounded impressed on the ride to the restaurant last night."

He gives up on the last traces of bronzer and flops back in his chair, hands running through his over-moussed hair.

Their morning of rehearsal had been productive, blocking out most of their routine for next week in a few short hours. It had been followed immediately by primping for the results show in the afternoon, leaving no time to spend worrying about the outcome. But now that the first couple has been sent packing, she and Castle have apparently both taken to stewing over their runner-up spot on the leaderboard, announced as an afterthought by the host at the close of the show. At least if she focuses on distracting Castle, it will get her out of her own head.

"Yeah, well, the judges' scores said we were tied for first, but it's the audience voting after the show that can make or break you."

Kate opens her mouth into a tall "o" to get the last of her mascara off with a cotton ball doused in remover. It should bother her that this gorgeous man is about to see her with zero makeup, already slouched in cotton pants and over-sized "Chicago" t-shirt less than an hour after the close of the results show. She cannot be bothered to care as the white pouf finally comes away only slightly gray, signaling that her face is finally free of the cloying, cakey mask.

Never one to let silence reign, Castle pipes up a moment later, as he takes a comb to the unruly spikes of his chestnut hair.

"Paula tried to tell me I should do more publicity while I'm out here. Maybe she was right. Do a couple book signings, walk a few more red carpets. There was some checkout line magazine that called to ask for a photo shoot. What do you think? I mean, if Brandi got her votes just by being on reality TV, maybe if I get us out there, get some attention, we won't come in second next week."

Kate begins the process of unpinning her hair, scowling in her partner's direction.

"We didn't come in second. There are no official 'places' except last." Her gut clenches at the phrase, but she moves past it to address his suggestion. "But feel free to pander to the paparazzi all you want."

That stops him in his coiffure-taming tracks, and a smile flashes bright back at her with his reflection.

"So you're in? I mean, they're going to want to get shots of us rehearsing, and maybe backstage next week-"

"Wha- wait, what? I never said I wanted anything to do with cameras. Those bloodsucking lens jockeys can kiss my ass."

The reaction is visceral, based mostly on last spring's media blitz speculating about herself and Flash, painting her as the bad guy, always giving the celebrity the benefit of the doubt. She yanks the last pins out of her bun and shakes out her hair, her forehead pinching into pleats.

"Tell me how you really feel, Beckett. No, but seriously, how do you expect us to get publicity as a team if the team isn't in the photos together?"

"You're the big name, Mr. New-York-Times-Bestselling-Writer. Your face in the tabloids will be enough to make a few thousand middle-aged women pick up their phones on Monday nights."

"I rese-"

His indignance is cut off by a series of uneven raps on the door.

"Redheads?"

His eyes widen, features frozen as he meets her questioning gaze in the glass.

"No, they're already headed to the airport. Alexis wanted to get back for school in the morning."

The knob turns, and a syrupy contralto rings through the widening gap.

"Ricky? Are you ready?"

Kate arches one eyebrow in the mirror, heat prickling at her cheeks and neck as the source of the voice pops her blonde head into the room. Since when does Brandi call _her partner_ "Ricky?"

Castle turns toward Kate, eyes sparkling, and something cold and heavy sinks in her chest.

"Some of the stars are meeting for drinks."

Castle is almost through the door, chasing after the skin-tight red skirt by the time Kate snaps out of her momentary stupor.

"Don't forget rehearsal, nine A.M.. Sharp."

Castle spins to smirk at her, brows waggling through the closing door.

"Until tomorrow, Kate."

# * # * # * #

A/N: Thanks so much to Alex for the edits and hand-holding. Thanks to all of you for reading. And to my ballroom expert and my DWTS expert, your insights are invaluable. Please forgive my artistic liberties.

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	6. Chapter 6

"And two and three-"

Castle's grip falters again as his toe snags on her heel coming out of a traveling grapevine.

Kate lets out a grunt and catches herself before she can lose her balance and hit the floor.

"Sorry." His whole body stiffens as his grip on her releases. "God! Why can't I get this step?" Stepping back, he spins left and swings a punch, cutting through empty air with an audible swoosh.

Kate has some guesses. All of them involve a blonde.

"Might have something to do with staying out bar hopping every night this week."

The circles under his eyes have grown darker every morning, his reactions becoming more sluggish as the Saturday rehearsal wears on, and no one has ever accused her of keeping her opinions to herself.

"I'm not staying out bar hopping." He turns to face her as his voice peaks one octave up, eyes wide and a little wild. Jaw clenching, he stalks halfway back to where she stands with her hands planted on her hips, shoulders pinched back. "And what business is it of yours, anyway?"

Great. If he's not out, he's up all night staying _in_ with Brandi. Closing the distance, she stretches up to her full 5 foot 9 inches. With the 2 inches from her rehearsal heels, she almost makes it to his eye level. This close, she can see the vein at his right temple bulging.

"I'm your partner," she spits back, "and in case you haven't noticed, it's _my_ knee that's three shades of purple today."

His lids lower as his chest deflates. Sinking back, he circles to his bag near the door for water.

Castle had apologized for an hour after he tripped and knocked her off balance the day before, her momentum combined with misplaced trust in his reflexes dropping her like a stone, all her weight on her left knee. And he had insisted on running out for ice, brought them both back lunch - her favorite salad with arugula and goat cheese, vinaigrette on the side, from the shop down the block. Accidents happen, but a tired, distracted partner is more likely to cause them.

Kate crosses to the sound system and restarts her cut of their latest song. Maybe a run through with the music will get him out of this funk.

Lou Bega's half-synth, half-pop mambo had seemed like such a good idea when she had started choreographing their second dance. Now the perky string of names detailing the skirt-chasing habits of the singer just makes her hair hurt. Maybe her stomach. Ugh - fine, dead center in her chest. At least the lyrics don't include a "Brandi."

She lowers the volume and calls out the start of a truce.

"Look, Castle, if you want some time to yourself today, we can quit. Get a fresh start tomorrow mo-"

The click of the door and a boisterous voice calling "Hallo?" interrupt her.

A tall, overly-tanned suit hefts a black shoulder bag into the studio and is followed by a motley crew of t-shirted assistants hauling larger and larger cases of gear. Another blonde. Seriously, you would think she would be used to it, being from California, but this is getting ridiculous.

Ken Doll stretches out a precisely manicured hand toward her partner.

"Mr. Richard Castle, I presume?" The man's British accent ought to make him sound distinguished, but instead it only ups the smarm exuding from his bleach-white smile.

The writer straightens from his crouch over his bag, face suddenly blooming in a grin made for flashbulbs.

"The one and only. And you must be the infamous Giorgio. Paula has told me so much about you."

Cameras and lighting equipment begin sprouting from bins and bags, and Giorgio directs them to the center of her dance floor.

Kate clears her throat, fists finding the jut of her hipbones again.

Castle's head snaps around, face contracting slightly as she glares.

"Oh, how rude of me. Giorgio, this is Kate Beckett, Kate, this is the top celebrity photographer from _People Magazine_."

Kate offers him her hand.

"Oh, how lovely to meet you, darling." Gripping her hand in both of his, Giorgio tugs it to his lips, makes a show of bowing to place a kiss over her knuckles that sends creeping vines of _ick_ up her arm, then refuses to let go as he turns to Castle and emotes. "Mr. Castle, are you absolutely certain you cannot convince this beautiful creature to let me immortalize her on the pages of our fair publication? A few shots of the two of you dancing, maybe a saucy little dip for the camera?"

Extracting her fingers from his clutches, suppressing the urge to wipe them on her t-shirt, Kate answers for herself.

"This beautiful creature does not do publicity photos that are not required by her contract."

Barracudas. No, not ferocious enough. Piranhas, the lot of them. No conscience.

Kate cuts a sharp path to the corner, collecting her bag and iPod before weaving through the gear strewn across the path to the exit, not even bothering to change into street shoes. Just as her hand closes over the door handle, Rick calls out from his spot surrounded by the expanding web of equipment, cords, and poles.

"Kate? Wait, where are you going?"

"You obviously have better things to do this afternoon than rehearse, Rick. See you tomorrow."

She is out the door without sparing her slack-jawed partner another glance. Let him have his fifteen minutes. Maybe Brandi will volunteer to let him dip her on camera.

# * # * # * #

Halfway into her duck spring roll, Lanie Parrish, newly-minted M.D. and forensic pathology fellow at the L.A. medical examiner's office, finally lets loose.

"You asked me not to come to the show last week, and I'm your friend, so I respected that, but if you don't have tickets in that little leather handbag of yours, I'm gonna smack you."

Kate lifts one newly-shaped brow at her former college roommate and reaches for the aforementioned wristlet, producing a ticket for the performance and results shows for this week. As she slides them across the smooth, starched white tablecloth, she harassess her friend.

"Well, you remember what happened when you came to the first performance last season."

Lanie quirks one corner of her mouth as she lifts her cloth napkin to dab at imaginary duck sauce.

"Katherine Beckett, if you make one more reference to that ridiculous roommate curse I will tell that GQ cover model of a partner that you sleep with Sam the Teddy Bear."

Fear zings up Kate's spine, completely absurd, but potent all the same.

"You wouldn't dare! I have so much dirt on you. That senior you dated freshman year, and getting caught by campus police with the - and you swore you would never -"

Lanie's face has morphed into a Cheshire Cat grin that stops Kate's inventory of college-age scandal.

"Just checking to see if you really liked him. Good to know some things never change…"

Kate hears the blood whooshing through her ears, feels it pulsing at the tips of her fingers.

"I hate you."

Lanie just keeps smiling.

"I know, sweetie, but you love me, too, and in the end, I've always got your best romantic interests at heart."

Lanie lifts the other half of her spring roll and dips it in the citrusy sauce before taking a delicate bite.

"You trashed my last boyfriend from the day you met him."

In no hurry, her friend chews, swallows, and sips her wine before looking through immaculately painted lashes to reply.

"And how, exactly, did that relationship turn out for you?"

Kate grunts as she forks up watercress and cucumber.

"I seriously hate you."

She takes out her aggression by chomping the crunchy bite of salad.

"And I do _not _like my partner."

"Fine, don't like him. But if you did happen to, for example, take his extremely well-toned, gravity-defying ass to bed for a 10-week booty call, I wouldn't blame you."

"Lanie!" A few artfully coiffed heads turn in her direction, so she lowers her voice to continue. "I have no desire to sleep with a cocky, millionaire asshole who beds the first blonde reality star he meets in Hollywood."

Her best friend lifts the dewy glass of Sauvignon Blanc to her lips, swallows a measured sip, and tips her head left.

"When you first met the man, you told me he was a womanizing ass, sleeping with three redheads on both coasts. And who did those redheads he was spending so much time with turn out to be?"

Stony silence.

"Oh, yeah, his mother, his twelve-year-old daughter, and his _very ex_ ex-wife. What exactly makes you think your people-reading skills have improved so much in less than a month? How do you know he's keeping Bambi up all night between the sheets? The man is a writer. Is it possible that he's writing?"

Kate's lips have pressed and puckered themselves until the muscles of her face begin to fatigue, but she will not dignify that with a response. Especially since she cannot refute Lanie's statement. Damn.

"You could try that archaic, old-fashioned method of finding out more about another human being: talk to the man."

# * # * # * #

Sunday dawns with a vague ache behind her eyes and sand on her tongue. Kate guzzles water and blasts herself awake with a steaming shower before her usual half hour of yoga. The stretches are supposed to clear her mind of clutter, but the inside of her lids are tattooed with the image of Rick's puppy dog eyes tracking her retreat from the dance studio the afternoon before.

Dinner with Lanie, and that one last glass of red, had mostly distracted her last night. For once, her former Stanford roommate had kept silent on the subject of her lack of a date, but in exchange she had spent most of dinner grilling her on her new partner.

After defending herself, and her choice to keep her distance from Rick, for the majority of their girls' night, Kate had found herself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering where, and with whom, Rick was spending his evening. Somewhere around 4 A.M., she had woken with a start, goosebumps covering every inch of skin exposed to the over-chilled air of her bedroom. The image of Castle, shirtless, sweaty and flushed, his thickly muscled arms wrapped around her in a pose that would make Len, Carrie Ann and Bruno all blush, had flooded her mind's eye. An hour later, hot in all the wrong places despite her air conditioning, she had given up on sleep and started her day.

Now, after caffeine, steam, and yoga, her brain is still fixated on the bulge and strain of biceps as he had held her, inches from the ground, caught against his body fast and firm, no escape but yet not at all afraid. No, "afraid" is definitely not the "a" word that comes to mind.

A knock at her apartment door snaps her head up, eyes popping open and out of her reimagining of the dream. She unfolds herself from downward facing dog and grabs a towel, blotting the sweat from her face and neck as she crosses to the door. Too bad the towel can't fix the flush of blood now rushing beneath her skin.

She peers through the peephole to see who in their right mind would be stopping by at 7 A.M. on a Sunday, and her stomach drops.

Another tap on the door startles her into releasing the deadbolt, and she swings open the door with a little more force than necessary.

"Castle what the hell are you doing here?"

Her partner, dressed in dark jeans and a crisp cornflower blue button-down that sparks up the matching shade of his eyes, greets her with a winsome smile and holds out one of two to-go cups of coffee from her favorite shop around the block.

"Good morning to you, too, Beckett."

She lowers her brows at the coffee, running through the possible motivations for his visit. Probably trying to butter her up to pose for _People_ after all.

"How do you even know where I live?"

"Mystery writer, remember? I do research."

That twinkle in his eyes finally suckers her into taking the cup from his hand, fingers brushing his briefly in the exchange.

"Is this a California thing, having coffee in the hallway?"

"Fine," she steps out of his way and he enters, gaze immediately roving to every corner of her living room. "You're inside, now what do you want?"

He is hovering at her bookcase, profile backlit by the picture window overlooking downtown LA, eyes scanning spines.

Oh shit.

No he is two shelves away from-

"Castle!"

His body freezes, eyes turning expectantly to meet hers, caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"What?"

The squint to his eye is assessing her current level of crazy, but at least she has his attention. She gestures widely to the sofa across the room, hoping he has missed the line of titles - he is still looking expectant.

"Have a seat. Can I get you anything?" Her smile is uneven, a too-conscious curving of lips, and his mirrors it as he sits, setting his coffee on her table, then retrieving it as he fidgets, coming to rest with elbows on knees.

"I'm good."

Kate perches on the arm of a chair opposite him, stalls with a long draw on her coffee.

The vanilla caresses her tastebuds, and she takes a long breath in, absorbing the familiar nutty roast of the espresso. Narrowing her eyes, she pries the lid from the cup to look inside. Minimal foam. It's her exact order from Lava Java.

Before she can look up or question him, she hears a quiet hum that sounds like "research" singsonging from behind Castle's own coffee cup.

"Enough stalling. Why are you here?"

"Can't a guy just bring his partner a cup of coffee before rehearsal?"

"Two hours before the rehearsal time you have previously called 'criminally early'?"

The silence lasts a beat too long before he

meets her eyes and supplies a round-toned answer.

"I just wanted to apologize for being distracted this week. Consider this a peace offering." He lifts his cup toward hers.

"Right," she draws out the vowel as she nods slowly. "I guess L.A. nightlife would be distracting, coming from New York. All the sun tans and dye jobs and plastic bodies in tiny dresses."

It isn't mean, really, just unpleasant of her, as condescending as every New Yorker she has ever heard describe the superiority of East Coast culture compared to California's.

"Beckett, whatever you think I've been doing every night, I assure you-"

She holds one palm out flat, stopping his explanation.

"It's none of my business what you do with your free time, Castle. Do whomever -whatever you want. Just be ready to work when you walk into rehearsal. I know we scored high last week, but so did three or four other couples. Winning this season won't be a cakewalk."

Castle splutters mid-sip, using his free hand to snap and point at her, face triumphant if slightly coffee-splashed.

"Ha! You do think we're gonna win! I've been trying to get you to say that since the results show."

Sliding down to sit on the cushion of her chair, she straightens and leans back, crossing one leg over the other.

"I didn't say we _would_ win. We _could_ win. Big difference."

"So what's the secret? This is the third season - you're bound to have it figured out by now. Is it looking naked in the costumes? Scandal in the tabloids? Do we need an alliance with the other teams to get someone voted off? Because whatever it is, I'm totally in."

Glee is radiating from every pore as he speculates.

"Sorry, Captain Conspiracy, it's nothing so nefarious." She ticks off the basics on her newly-polished fingernails. "Recognizable music, tasteful but flattering costumes, eye-catching choreography - those are the superficial ones. But the most important things can't be art directed: practice until we can dance the routines in our sleep, and give the judges and the audience what they want."

"And what do they want, exactly?" His tone has hardened, body tipping forward, attention hanging on her every word.

"Carrie Ann said it last week." She cannot help the blush that flares to life across her cheeks. "We lit up the floor. They want to feel something when they watch us dance. If a couple doesn't have that, it's hopeless."

"But we do." His eyes have gone dark.

She nods, the air in the room suddenly too thick for breathing, speaking.

Castle unfolds his limbs from the couch, and crosses to stand at her feet, then holds out his hand.

Invites her in.

Fourteen feet from her bed.

Her heart rate skyrockets as she hesitates, voice in her head warning her of all the reasons why starting something with this playboy, with her partner, is a bad idea. Very, very bad.

But bad can feel so very, very good.

Reaching out, she wraps her fingers around his and lets him pull her up and out of the chair, straightening as his other arm curls around her back, their bodies pressing together, from his muscled thighs all the way to the stunning breadth of his chest. Her blood is singing, every muscle coiled tight in anticipation as his face closes in. Her lids flutter closed.

And then he takes a step left and she is spinning out into the center of her living room, and this is their dance routine.

One sharp breath in and she realizes he is speaking - counting beats. Her body is quicker to snap back into dance mode than her brain, so she is executing the choreography, matching his rhythm on instinct even without the music, well before her thoughts have left the cloudy haze of devastation over the fact that - how the hell did she let herself want to kiss Richard Castle?

By the third run-through, both now barefoot and sweating in her living room, and without a single missed step or flubbed handhold from her partner, Kate lets out a giggle as she drops into the final dip.

Castle lifts her, grinning back, pausing before leading her into their last sequence of steps.

"What?"

"I think we could pull this off."

His face nearly splits as he lets out a note of his own laughter, popping back into their routine with a flourish.

Two days later, her good mood hasn't diminished. With the stage lights half-blinding her, she dips into her partner's waiting grip, the band's enthusiastic rendition of the quick-tempo-poppy mambo thrumming in her ears. Rising up, her hand connects with Castle's as the vocalist promises they will "touch the sky."

A tight series of turns leaves her vision blurred around the edges, but she zeroes in on her partner, hamming it up in the role of the Latin-dancing ladies man. He sends her off into one final pirouetting spin, his hands batting up the rippling hem of her flaring skirt, the costume designed with this exact move in mind. Vaguely she hears the crowd erupt in applause, eating up their antics.

When the band plays the final bars, she reaches out and Castle tugs her in for their final pose - a clench with an exaggerated smooch from her on his grinning cheek.

The choreography has her winding into him with a turn, so she comes in blind, lips puckered, the plan to leave a big, red, lip print on his skin for the cameras. But as her lips land on something other than the make-up dusted plane of Castle's cheek, it's too late to change trajectory.

Only when her vision centers again does Kate realize the warm, pliant, spot her pout has landed is actually square on her partner's baby-soft lips. Everything around them winks out of existence as she inhales the sharp scent of sweat and cologne and him. The gentle play of his mouth against hers has her knees going weak, and she can't decide who let out the tiny moan resonating somewhere between them, but just as she starts to sink into his hold, she feels his grip tighten on her hand and - oh holy hell they are in the middle of a soundstage, and she has to spin back out and finish their damn dance...

_"Mambo number five!"_

…for the millions who have just watched her kiss Richard Castle live on national television.

# * # * # * #

A/N: You guys still with me? Next week is #CastleFanficMonday again, so I'll see if I can get a quick chapter ready in time. Thanks so much for follows, reviews, and favorites. Writing a random AU is kind of a gamble, so it helps to hear from you all if it's working. ALEX, thank you for coaching and coaxing as always. And thank you for reading "research" JUST EXACTLY RIGHT.

Twitter: kate_christie_  
Tumblr: kathrynchristie dot tumblr dot com 


	7. Chapter 7

**Cheek to Cheek Chapter 7**

The punch lock clicks into place on the door to the tiny bathroom at the back of their dressing room, and Kate sinks to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. A single red plume from her feather headpiece floats up on an air current then spirals toward the floor.

Her knees knock together as she folds her arms in tight across her chest, the bite of a thousand sequins digging into her skin and helping her stop the shivering.

Adrenaline. Like after the falls with Flash and Ben.

But it has never hit her like this after something good. Kate closes her eyes tight, until she sees stars across the blackness.

They had been applauding, standing up, cheering - It had been - She had been - Castle had that wide-eyed look that lingered for just an instant when they had separated after the music stopped, but it had flicked right back to his stage smile when Tom had called them over to the judges. The judges - Their scores -

Tens. There had been tens. Plural. Two of them. And a nine. One point away from a perfect score. In week freaking two.

There had been jumping. And screaming - certainly no talking. And maybe a few tears. Lipstick. Oh god.

Kate rises on trembling legs to peek into the tiny mirror over the sink. Shadows cut across the planes of her face from the single incandescent bulb buzzing in the overhead fixture, but the darkness cannot hide the smudges of red feathering out from her ruby-painted mouth.

Snatching paper towels from the dispenser, she scrubs at the color, corners of her mouth going raw because of course it stains. Castle's must be -

A tap on the door has her gripping the bone colored porcelain of the pedestal sink, knuckles matching the basin. So much for ducking out unnoticed.

"You okay in there?"

The thin wooden door further muffles his gentle tone. She cannot handle gentleness from him.

"I'm fine."

She is not fine.

"We should go back out, find our families. Maybe we can all grab dinner and celebrate?"

Something flutters in her gut, but it isn't hunger.

"I'm pretty wiped, actually. But you should go."

A beat of silence leaves her breathless. He cannot see her like this. If he sees her flushed and trembling and completely out of control, he will know. She wants him. Fuck. Even if that kiss - god that kiss - was real and not a ploy for the cameras, there are reasons it cannot be anything more than it was.

So many reasons.

No dating partners. He lives in New York. Brandi. Damn it, what if he kisses Brandi like that, with the satin lips and his arms all wrapped - even his breath was perfect. Who the hell dances with breath mints? It's a choking hazard.

"Are you sure?" Castle asks.

She jerks upright from where she has been leaning closer and closer to the wall, dips her head forward instead as he continues to speak outside.

"We don't have to go to the party - Alexis doesn't really like that kind of thing anyway. There's this amazing place with burgers just a few blocks away - Everette's?"

Oh, and shakes. Strawberry milkshakes so thick they won't come up through the straw. Her forehead stops when it meets the icy flat of the mirror. Of course he has already found Everette's.

"No, I think I'll head home, take a bath, relax before we start quickstep tomorrow."

Possibly drown herself in a bottle of her favorite Napa cab.

"Okay, well, get some rest, and if you change your mind, you know where we are."

His bag rustles with the sounds of him pulling out street shoes, shoving gear inside. A few moments later, his footsteps track toward the hallway. They pause, and she hears a breath let out, then the outer door opens and shuts.

Her sweaty palm slips over the cold metal of the doorknob. But she grips harder to open it, stumbles to her bag, and manages to text Lanie and her mom not to wait.

Kate loses herself in the ritual of removing her makeup - cotton balls and remover-soaked cloths and finally a scrub with her face wash - until her skin is bare. Stripped of all that color and light. She traces the nude pink of her lips with the tip of one finger, eyes sliding shut as the memory slams into her.

The kiss has taken up residence in every nerve ending his lips have touched. What scares her is that she allows that possession, pulls up the memory and lives there, over and over, does nothing to stop the slow motion loop of meeting mouths and shared breath.

When her muscles start to complain from inactivity, she peels off the costume, hangs it to leave for cleaning, shrugs on the warm-ups she keeps at the bottom of her bag instead of her going-out-schmoozing black pants and blouse. The Chucks are like lazy Sunday sex for her feet, trapped in three-inch performance heels for the better part of a day.

She has lost track of time, but by now the other dancers and stars have vacated the studio for the after party or their own private wallowing or celebration.

Kate steps into the hallway without a thought for her image. The soft click to her left as she pulls the dressing room door closed draws her attention, but when she sees nothing, she shakes off the tingle of awareness and heads for the parking lot.

# * # * # * #

"Can I make an official statement?"

The cameraman smirks at Castle as he answers, outside of the mic's range.

"Knock yourself out."

"I. Hate. The. Quickstep."

Her partner has her in a decent hold, about to set off across the studio floor in a series of chasses and running steps. The camera crew had arrived maybe ten minutes ago, and Castle is expressing to the national audience what he has been snarking to her for the past three hours.

The quickstep is a taste she never personally acquired. The stylized combination of intricate footwork and extreme smoothness requires extreme concentration even from professionals. It makes even the most coordinated amateurs look klutzy and slow. But that doesn't mean they can't do it well. At least in her professional opinion.

"Argh! I hate this fucking dance."

Castle pulls her tight into his chest when his balance goes. She had taught him how to save them both from falls after the series of disastrous rehearsals the week before, and at least he has learned something from her now green and yellow left knee. She lets her weight counterbalance his and they stay upright despite their tangled feet.

"Thanks, K-Becks. I think that's enough for today." Bernie is in charge of the behind the scenes clips this week. He used to produce for competitions, and back in season one she had made sure he was on the short list for the show despite his poor choice of a nickname for her. The favor has been repaid many times over, but still he does his best to give her "pretty" airtime in the clips.

Castle releases her as the small group troops out the door.

"Could we walk through that one more time?"

"We've walked through it seven times already. Go to the mirror and think about it." She hates how much she enjoys the little schoolmarm persona, but over the past few weeks, she has discovered Castle responds to it. Maybe it stems from being surrounded by women all the time.

As predicted, he goes to the front, hands balancing on the barre as he marks the combination once, then again. His spandex dance pants shift as his calf muscles flex, supporting his balance on his toes.

"Bend your knees. Not gonna be smooth with straight legs."

He shifts his stance, though he gives her no verbal indication he has heard her words. Stepping a few feet back from the barre, he does it again, arms miming their frame, eyes fixed on some point beyond the wall. One more march back and he tries it up to tempo, the alternative pop song she chose to keep the archaic dance style relevant still playing low on repeat in the background.

It's perfect, every step in time and placed properly.

"Okay, okay, let's do it." He crosses the room without making eye contact, obviously in the zone and trying to protect it. She obliges, stepping straight into his arms, letting him pick a random measure in the music and going with it.

When they emerge on the other side of the footwork intact, he hugs her to his chest. His _yes_ bursts hot along the curve of her neck as he twirls her around, and she cannot stop the single note of laughter from escaping her throat. Kate's heart clenches, half pride, half want. Pulling back far enough to look up into his eyes, she smiles at the triumph she sees there.

Her lips are tingling.

Clearing her throat, she steps back, tamping down the flare of heat.

The air in the room turns cold as she shakes out her arms, clenches her jaw, reestablishes some distance. Reverting to coaching mode helps her ignore the flutter in her stomach.

"Just because you got the footwork doesn't mean you have the finesse. All that over-the-top flirting that scored us so many points in mambo last night won't get you anywhere in quickstep. This dance is about being smooth in spite of the speed."

An imagined kink in her left calf muscle gives her an excuse to stretch her Achilles, facing the mirror with her weight braced on her hands on the barre. She hears rather than sees his answer, eyes studying the grip and play of her fingers around the grain of sturdy wood.

"That's why this is so hard - that funny, charming stuff comes naturally. This highbrow, stylized prancing feels like I'm a break dancer auditioning for the Bolshoi ballet."

Risking a glance up in the mirror, she spots him facing the opposite wall, leaning left over a wide stance into a pose from their warm-up. The lack of eye contact gives her courage.

"About the flirting, Castle…"

As if he has been waiting for the cue, he interrupts before she can finish her well-rehearsed rationalization of what had happened the night before.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." Her insides bottom out at those words. "I didn't mean for that -"

Rather than suffer through the humiliation, the pity of whatever excuse he has come up with, she turns to face him and interrupts.

"It's ok, I know what you were doing." He straightens, spins to face her, brows raised, lips parted on whatever he had been about to say. "It was my advice you were following. 'Give them what they want,' right? You did it for the votes." His eyes narrow, his expression closing down. "It was smart. You should have warned me before you did it, but I bet it'll pay off tonight."

Castle blinks, face slackening on the start of a reply, but he stops himself, takes a breath before he curves his lips into a little smile she cannot quite place.

"Yeah, you're right." The words come out chipper but a little flat. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but it was sort of spontaneous, the crowd was cheering every time I turned on the charm, and the ending came up, and I mean, what's better than a big smooch to get the middle aged housewives to dial in?" That little smile quirks back to a cheeky grin, but his eyes aren't in it.

Kate has spent the past twelve hours convincing herself that this is exactly what would happen: he would admit the kiss was not real, the whole thing was a well-disguised ruse aimed at garnering buzz and votes from the audience. But somehow hearing it from the lips that kissed her - it hollows out her chest, makes her want exactly what she has told Lanie, her mom, herself that she does not need. The stage face slips in place almost seamlessly.

"I guess we'll see in a few hours, but making out on camera isn't gonna help you win the quickstep, Casanova."

The last thing Kate needs is another partner who will cheat on her and break her heart. What she does need is to win that mirror ball.

# * # * # * #

"And up - up - up - up - and down."

Sweat drips from the tip of her nose, hitting the floor in fat drops as they hold their ending pose for two counts before collapsing on their backs, letting the cold floor absorb some of the heat radiating off their bodies.

Between heaving gulps of air, Kate manages a few words over the opening notes of K. T. Tunstall on repeat.

"Better. Much better."

A week of rehearsing and "better" is still the best she can say of their quickstep.

"I never, ever want to see a black horse or cherries ever again."

"Never pictured you as a cowboy, Rick."

"Cowboy, no. There was this one police horse I got to know pretty well last summer… On second thought, yes, I'm an urban cowboy."

After a week of cordial pleasantness from her partner, Kate prefers the twinkle now sparkling in his eyes. Except it sets off that tingle in her lips again. She cannot bring herself to sit yet, allows the studio floor to press up into her hips and shoulders and the knotted muscles of her back, points of contact beginning to cool. The rest of her is flushed and covered in perspiration, stripped down to leotard and tights because the air conditioning has cut out on them again. Staring across the two feet separating her from her now-shirtless partner, she can think of much better ways to end up this hot and bothered than rehearsing the quickstep.

Damn heat.

"Let's get out of this oven. Time to go home and get ready anyway." She pushes herself up on her hands, letting her head drop back so the room is upside down.

"But I'm still too stiff through the end - can't we try it one more time?"

It must be the four hundredth time this week, and he is correct, he is still too stiff, but the last hundred run throughs have not helped.

"Nope, I'm calling it. Professional's prerogative. We're done. You always loosen up when we're actually performing. It'll be fine, Castle."

They haven't tripped, or landed in a heap, or inflicted bruises on one another in days. That's something. Of course it has required every ounce of her patience and his concentration to achieve that many accident-free days. Maybe she should get them one of those construction site countdown calendars.

"But Ka-ate-"

Castle's full out whine is interrupted when her phone buzzes from her bag. The only people who call the day of the show are the studio and her parents, so she drags herself from the dewy imprint her body has left on the floor and plucks her cell out, recognizing her mom's cell phone from the caller ID screen.

"Hey. Are you guys still coming tonight?"

"Oh - of course we are. Are you - are you okay, Katie?"

"Yeah, tired. We've been rehearsing all morning. Just packing up to leave now and get ready. Why?"

"Maybe you should stop at Ralph's on your way home."

"I went grocery shopping on Sunday. What's going on, Mom?"

"Not for groceries. Just go through the checkout line."

The phone goes dead in her ear. She stares down at it for a beat and then slips on her t-shirt and shorts.

"What was that all about?"

Castle stands, his shirt back on, his bag in hand when she stuffs her phone in her purse with an arch of her eyebrow.

"I have no idea. I'm supposed to stop at the store on my way home, but not to buy groceries. Have I mentioned sometimes my parents are a little odd?"

Castle steps out the door and starts down the stairs, looking back at her as he descends.

"Oh no, your parents are June and Ward Cleaver compared to my mother. Did I ever tell you about the time she left me backstage with the cast of the Rocky Horror Show while she auditioned for A Chorus Line and every other Broadway show in an eight block radius?"

"Wait, you mean you met Tim Curry? Did you get his autograph?"

Not that she had ever waited at a Broadway theater stage door for autographs.

"I was eight, Beckett, all I cared about was they let me play with their make-up while I helped them rehearse their lines."

"Meatloaf was in that cast, too."

"He was the funny one with sideburns who hung me upside down by my ankles. Hey, I didn't know you liked Broadway. I'll bet you wanted to be a Rockette, didn't you? Little Katie Beckett from L. A. wanted to make it big at Radio City Music Hall."

Castle pushes the door open and motions for her to precede him out, so she throws her answer over her shoulder as she makes a beeline for the working air conditioner inside her car.

"Don't be ridiculous. New York is cold. Besides, Rockettes are just over-dressed cheerleaders. All those formations and high kicks? Real dancers dance on Broadway."

She hears a mumble that sounds vaguely like "Thought so," coming from the direction of his rental as she slides behind the wheel, but by the time she looks up, he has already started the engine, and he sends her a quick wave as he pulls out.

Following her mom's advice, Kate stops at the store, grabbing a water from the refrigerated case as an excuse for walking through checkout. She waits in line behind a woman buying diapers, the smiling baby on her hip wiggling his fingers at Kate until she finally smiles and waves back. The baby babbles "bye-bye" as his mother gets her change, and Kate puts her water on the belt before sliding her sunglasses down her nose to scan the assortment of cooking magazines, Soap Opera Digest, and gossip rags. When her eyes land on The Inquisitor, her stomach bottoms out.

The dazzling smiles and sapphire eyes of her partner and Brandi flash up from the glossy rectangle, and as heat floods her cheeks, she reaches out. Her hand hesitates before she grabs the slick stack of pages and thrusts it at the woman running the register.

The 40-something with over-bleached hair and sparkles decorating her hot pink fingernails scans her items without looking up, sighing with her finger over the enter key as Kate fumbles for her credit card. Just as she passes the magazine over, the woman looks at the cover photo and smirks.

"You watch that dance show? Because this writer guy is a hunk. Bought two of his books on Amazon after that kiss last week."

Kate drops her eyes and ducks out without a reply, grateful for the dark glasses, and for the lack of her face on the tabloid. She rolls the magazine up into a tight tube and refuses to open it until she is safely inside her car. Once there, she uncurls the pages and studies the color photo occupying the center third of the cover.

Everything about it is wrong.

Castle has Brandi in a dip. And not just any dip - Kate's dip from their mambo the week before. And worse, Castle is not even trying to keep proper form: his hands are in all the wrong places. Well, as far as the magazine photo editor is concerned, they must be exactly the right places for selling copies.

The teaser makes her stomach turn: "Dancing with the Enemy? DWTS rivals Rick and Brandi spotted heating up Avalon's dance floor between episodes."

Letting out a grunt, she slaps the magazine onto the passenger seat and shifts into gear. She has too much to do to get ready for tonight to waste time on this trash.

# * # * # * #

Steam, whether her own or the stuff rising off the sun-warmed pavement outside Television City, blasts over her freshly scrubbed skin as she exits her car. She had left the magazine lying open on her bathroom counter, but the image ghosts across her eyes with every blink.

Kate barely stops in their dressing room on her way to makeup and hair, and thankfully there is no sign of Castle. She has mostly ignored the buzz of thirteen missed calls, voicemails, and text messages, all from him, starting about an hour after they had left the rehearsal studio. The first few had asked her to call, but the tone of the later ones had shifted to worry and then annoyance at her silence. Fury bubbles out of every pore at the thought of the tabloid - about how unprofessional it is, certainly not about the tendrils of something more personal creeping up from low in her gut.

She is out of hair and makeup and in her costume by the time she runs into Rick at their call for blocking out on the empty performance stage. Kate sees the moment he spots her from across the wings, his body immediately canting toward her as he brushes off whichever stage hand he has just signed a book for.

"Kate." His concern carries across the space as he heads in her direction, brow furrowed, but their music cues up as the stage lights flash to life, and they have to walk through their choreography. "Where have you been? I tried to call."

They meet, and his eyes scan her carefully neutral expression, their feet marching along the path of their dance without doing the actual steps. Kate dodges any accidental contact between their shoulders - they don't need to touch since this run through is just for the crew to plan final camera angles and adjust lighting.

"I was getting ready for our performance. Where do you think I was, smiling for the paparazzi while groping the competition?"

His look ices over.

"Hey, wait just a minute. That article-"

"Hold it! Pause the audio. Run it back two measures." The faceless voice from the bank of monitors bellows out directions and they reset, picking up their places and the direction of their steps.

So he has seen it. Probably got advance copies for all she knows.

"I didn't know-"

With the music up again, he tries to continue, but she interrupts.

"Mr. Castle, some of us here are professionals. I think everyone would appreciate it if you focused on the work for a change."

His eyes narrow as his back straightens. They have nearly made it to the end of the routine, and for the closing shot they have to hit their final pose. Reaching for his hand, she steps in, arches, and he catches her in the dip, their looks shooting daggers at the empty seats in the audience.

"Great. Thanks guys. Harvey, are Celeste and Jamie here?"

He lifts her, and as soon as her feet are under her, she spins on her heel and heads straight for backstage. No way she will be spending the next hour in their dressing room. Ignoring the soft footfalls hustling to catch up, she ducks behind a heavy drape and through a black soundproofed door into the booth where Bernie sits in the dark, headphones covering his ears, running footage to finalize the rehearsal clips.

He glances over long enough to wave her into the metal folding chair wedged in the corner beside the electronics, then goes back to his playback of the aging comic paired with one of the younger professionals looping over the main monitor.

At least these over-bright images will temporary flood out the mental imprint of her smiling partner holding someone else on the dance floor.

# * # * # * #

There has been no more talking.

Kate peers across the wings to see Castle standing rigid, staring blankly at the massive cutout of a cherry tree waiting to be placed on stage for their routine. She has never been happier about her choice to have them start from opposite sides of the dance floor this week.

The music from the second-to-last routine of the night blares loudly enough to kill any attempt at a last second mental run-through of the quickstep. But even the six-foot bank of speakers cannot block out the anger waging war in her gut.

Brandi herself rushes by, Malik smiling in tow as they head up to the greenroom. Their dance tonight was the tango, and from their faces, they are pleased with their scores, though Kate has missed them being announced. The show goes to commercial and the stagehands spring into action, pulling off set pieces in order to replace them in time for the final segment.

The stagehands hustle offstage as the cameras roll and Tom starts into his introduction.

"This week, Rick Castle made news dancing with his competition after hours at a hot L. A. nightclub."

Craning her neck, Kate sees a two-story high version of the Inquisitor cover blasted across the big screen.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The host segues into his narration of their week of rehearsals, starting with a bleeped-out version of Rick's disparaging comments about the quickstep and ending with a shot of the two of them nearly tripping over each other, a snippy comment from her about his need for more practice echoing through the soundstage.

"Will Rick and Kate be able to maintain their position at the top of the leaderboard despite all his time spent dancing with another star?"

The lead singer counts the band into the opening notes of their song, and lets out a "Woo-hoo," as the lights come up on the upstage wings. The smile on Castle's face as he glides toward her across the stage is as fake as Kate's silver-tipped eyelashes.

They spend the first several measures apart, finally meeting just beneath the giant tree. Her partner's fingers are cold, gripping her hand with no give as he pulls her into their first pass diagonally across the dance space. He leads with a staccato series of steps, nowhere near as smooth as their final run-through had been that morning.

Careful not to let her lips move, she whispers sharply, "Knees."

Castle gives no indication he has heard her, stepping back half a beat sooner than she expects to take her into a turning promenade. The arch in his neck, turning his head away and up toward the corner, is spot on, exactly the opposite of his tendency all week to let his gaze drift back toward her, to lean his upper body into hers. As the vocalist hits K. T. Tunstall's series of "no's," Castle wrenches her arm up and back, whirling her into their under-arm spin.

Rick Castle knows better than to wrench her arm.

Kate keeps the cherry-red-lipped smile pasted on as she plants the ball of her foot directly on Castle's big toe and twists. She has to give him credit: his only reaction is a flick of his eyes directly to hers, the blue flashing daggers as he resets their stance to run the most complex series of footwork directly in front of the judges' table.

Just as Kate locks eyes with Len Goodman, Castle drops his hand to the curve of her waist below her last rib and digs his fingers in. He had found the one ticklish spot on her body that can render her defenseless during their first week in rehearsal, and she had threatened him with removal of his man parts if he ever intentionally used that knowledge against her.

Her body jerks slightly, and by the puzzled look on Len's face, her own expression must have changed for the worse, but she gets herself under control before the end of the phrase in the music. A series of intertwined turning steps pulls their bodies together briefly, and Kate chances a hiss in his ear.

"Save the manhandling for your girlfriend, Rick." She delivers the "K" on a puff of hot air that draws a flinch from Castle, setting them both off balance coming out of the spin. His wing tip nearly catches on the hem of her gown as he directs her into the final combination.

The fact that they land their ending pose in anything other than a tangled heap on the floor is a miracle, but as soon as the final note of music sounds, her partner's smile drops from his face. He lifts her with more force than necessary, the momentum throwing her center of gravity forward. If she were less agile than the highly trained professional that she is, she would have fallen on her face. And she would have slapped her partner's.

# * # * # * #

The slap comes in the form of their scores. 6, 6, 7.

Sitting in tepid bathwater three hours later, skin pruning, wine glass empty, she allows her vision to blur on the images of the magazine story: another flawlessly airbrushed shot of Castle and Brandi in action on the dance floor, his line of sight directed much lower than necessary on the neckline of Brandi's very tiny tube top, contrasted with a grainy inset of Kate ducking out of their dressing room the week before, no make-up, hair pulled back, in her slouchiest sweats.

"Stars party while partner pouts alone."

Flinging the magazine to the tile beside her claw-footed cast iron tub, she dunks herself under the water. Instead of disappearing as she intends, the memory of the judges' comments floats up from her subconscious.

_"Frankly I expected better of the both of you. Rick, you were off on your timing, your feet were slow through the fast parts, and you spent the whole routine tottering about stiff as a board. Kate, you are a professional, and even when your partner mucks up the steps, you should know better than to telegraph it to the audience. Watch those withering looks, young lady."_

_"Mr. Castle, I did not know you were branching out into romance novels? While I can't blame you for having a little fun while you're here in California, maybe you should spend a little less time dancing with our stars and a little more dancing with your partner."_

_"Usually I'm reaching for ice water when you two take the floor. All I can say about your chemistry tonight, though, is no, no, no, no-no-no."_

Between the insinuation of her jealously from the article and their abysmal performance, she had practically sprinted from the studio, avoiding her partner's attempt to have it out once the cameras had stopped rolling. Since then, her cell has been off.

Kate surfaces, fills her screaming lungs, and stands, water sluicing off her body, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

Her favorite towel and bicycle pajamas still don't provide the comfort she seeks. She heads to the kitchen with her empty wineglass hoping a third dose of Cabernet will either distract her or put her to sleep, but she stops short when someone starts pounding on her door.

The force of the knocking rattles the door on its frame, and she bobbles her glass, narrowly avoiding sending it shattering to the hardwood floor.

The racket stops momentarily, then picks up again with renewed vigor.

What the hell?

"Kate?"

Oh god.

She deposits the glass safely on her counter and storms down the hall, blood pressure already rising as she turns the lock and opens the door a crack.

"Castle, what the hell are you doing?"

He stops knocking, rocking back with a startled expression on his flushed face.

"Kate."

"Yeah, you yelled that already."

"Nice pajamas."

The "c" and the "s" take a little longer than usual. Kate crosses her arms over her braless chest and shifts her weight before indignation takes over.

"Are you drunk?"

"No. Absolutely not."

His answer is a little too quick, and his voice is a few decibels higher than it should be for her hallway after 11 P. M. on a Tuesday.

"Shhh. Castle it's late; what are you doing here?"

He does not take the hint. Placing one massive palm on either side of her doorjamb, he pitches forward.

"We're not dating."

The fumes from his high-end scotch blow her one step back into her entryway. Kate plants her fists on her hips, pulse thrumming in her ears, and bellows right back.

"I'd say that's pretty obvious."

Castle peels one hand off the frame and waves it vaguely between them, pointer finger getting a little closer to her chest than necessary before he sways slightly and answers.

"No, not 'WE' we, 'we' Brandi and me." The hand wafts back over his shoulder, gesturing in the direction of Television City.

Right.

"So pawing her in every hot spot in L. A. was just being friendly?"

Three short wraps sound against the ceiling above them.

Mrs. Phillips in the unit upstairs has a reputation for calling the cops when the college students next door turn up their subwoofer, so Kate grabs a fistful of her partner's t-shirt and pulls.

"Come in and keep it down. I'm making you coffee."

Shutting the door, she tugs him in the direction of her kitchen island and he scoots onto a stool.

"Please tell me you didn't drive like this."

"Course not. I took a cab from the airport."

"What were you doing getting drunk at the airport?"

"Dropped off Mother and Alexis, stopped for a drink, or five. We lost, Kate."

The buzz of the coffee grinder cuts off his whining rant, but he picks up again as she pours in water.

"We've never gotten sixes. More than one six. Any sixes actually. Sixes - is that right? Somehow that doesn't sound right. Six-i?"

Pushing the brew button on the coffeemaker, she rolls her eyes and fills a glass with water from the pitcher in her fridge. Considering his size and muscle mass, Drunk Castle could be much worse than loud and grammatically confused.

"You're the one who gets paid for his vocabulary, writer-boy. Here. Drink this."

He responds to her teacher's voice, as usual, and downs the whole glass, setting it with a thunk on her countertop.

"I wasn't pawing her. And it was one club. We went to Avalon with all the stars. She had a couple too many Cosmos. I asked her to dance to distract her, and then she got a little dizzy. Had to keep her from hitting the floor, like you taught me."

One of the knots in Kate's stomach unclenches, and she leans forward, hipbones digging into the drawer pulls of her cabinets.

"Castle, you don't have to explain. Your private life is your business."

His face melts into a frown.

"You were mad. The story made you mad, and I don't want you to be mad, even though that little wrinkle you get is adorable -" she lowers her brows in a glare, "- yeah, that's the one." He glances off toward her living room, face falling again, as he slurs off into another topic. "I made you mad last week, too, when I kissed you. Didn't mean that, either. I mean, I meant the kiss, I just didn't mean to make you mad - I wouldn't kiss somebody like that to make her mad. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever kissed anybody quite like that - am I rambling? Because the wrinkle is still there. I was just trying to say I'm sorry about Bambi -" he shakes his head, blinking hard, "- Brandi. I didn't know there were photographers that night, and nothing actually happened, certainly no kissing."

He runs out of air, maybe, and stops, eyes drifting around her face, not settling on any one spot. Lost. That's how she feels, with the butterflies now flapping up a storm, because maybe that kiss did mean something after all. Her subconscious pipes up with the list of reasons why it could not possibly - no. He's drunk and making no sense. She picks up with the last part of his verbal detour, injecting as much snark as she can manage.

"It's an L. A. nightclub, Castle, there are always photographers."

"I know that now…" He lets the last vowel drag out. "Anyway, I don't know how they got that picture of you, or why they said we were dating, or anything about your being jealous. I didn't talk to them. Brandi didn't either."

She doesn't trust the twiggy reality T. V. star as far as she can throw her. Any publicity is good publicity when your only marketable skill is selling your image.

"Right."

"She didn't. She likes you, Kate. And besides, she's too busy banging your ex-boyfriend to date anyone else."

Fire licks back through her veins and her spine goes rigid. Since when does Castle know anything about her former relationship with Malik?

"What?"

Castle leans his cheek on one hand, elbow propped on her tile counter.

"Malllllick."

This time when she leans forward, it's with murderous intent. If her ex has been buddying up to the stars, telling tales about her - Lanie could probably help her hide his body.

"How do you know he's my ex-boyfriend?"

"Your parents told me. Lanie too. I like her, by the way. Had a loooong talk with her at dinner last week after the show. Said you dated the Mal-man while you were dance partners, until you found out he was doing the horizontal Mambo with some blonde waitress from Santa Monica."

Damn it. Who's going to help her hide Lanie's body? She couldn't care less who her ex is dating at the moment, but her past is private. Her rage vents at the nearest target, voice going ice cold.

"Stay out of my private life, Castle, and I'll stay out of yours."

The shift in tone seems to catch his attention, and Castle rises, leaning into the counter on his hands, face looming a foot from hers.

"Hey, I came here to apologize, don't yell at me because your ex was an ass."

How much did Lanie tell him, anyway? Her best friend loves to talk, but she would need prompting to give up details on how their breakup had gone down.

"Who do you think you are, digging around in my life like it's research for your next novel?"

"Maybe it is!"

Kate blinks and straightens, heat blooming across her face as his words sink in. Richard Castle, her favorite author, wants to write about her.

When a second realization dawns, the blushing flattery drains from her cheeks, and she takes one unsteady step back from the counter. Paparazzi snapping photos for supermarket rags is nothing compared to having her life dissected, reworded for maximum drama, and then immortalized on the pages of a New York Times bestselling murder mystery. Not good. Very not good.

"I think you'd better leave, Mr. Castle."

Kate turns and makes for the door, praying he will stay upright long enough to follow.

"Fine." His stool scrapes along her kitchen floor, and heavy footsteps scuff behind her. She yanks on the knob and whirls to find a red-faced Castle, glaring through hazy eyes at the hallway outside her apartment.

"And keep your nose out of my business."

His head snaps around to answer her, repeating the only syllable he seems capable of speaking.

"Fine." Castle's momentum carries him through the entryway, out into the hall.

"And a hangover is no excuse for being late to rehearsal tomorrow." Before he can speak, she slams the door, and a moment later he growls something unintelligible and charges in the direction of the elevator.

Three more bangs rattle the light fixture on her ceiling and a muffled voice echoes through the air conditioning vent:

"Get a room!"

**# * # * # * #**

A/N: Readers, I'm amazed you haven't given up after so long a wait for this one. I'm thrilled if you are hanging on, and I promise I am not giving up on writing this story. Who knew Dancing with the Stars could be so addictive? Special thanks go to airbefore and caffinate-me for tag-team beta. I could not have done it without you. The next **#CastleFanficMonday** is only a week away. Check my twitter and tumblr for details.

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	8. Chapter 8

Kate's sneaker catches on the edge of the top stair, sending her, her dance bag, her over-sized purse, and her travel mug of coffee sprawling across the third floor landing.

Her shouted curse echoes down the stairwell as the scalding puddle of caffeine soaks the front of her white cotton t-shirt.

"Ssssshhhhhhhhhh!"

Her head snaps up from the gory scene to find a ball of black athletic wear curled up outside her rehearsal studio. Peeling herself from the linoleum, Kate feels no permanent damage, but she winces as she pinches the brown-stained fabric and plucks it away from her skin. Definitely got on the leotard underneath. Damn.

A groan floats down the hall from the direction of the lump.

Getting her feet under her and her bags on her shoulders, Kate crosses the hall and reaches over the fetal form of her partner to unlock the studio door.

As the door swings open, a beam of light slices across Castle's face, and he rolls over the threshold, stopping in a tucked position, arms wrapped tight over his head.

"Castle, what are you doing here?"

"Here. Nine A. M. sharp. Said, 'don't be late'." His voice is gravel. Kate sniffs. No scotch. Also no lingering sourness. At least he hasn't yorked on her floor. Yet.

Kate drops her gear near the sound system and flicks on the lightswitch, drawing a wince from Castle even though his face is buried against his knees.

"I gave you 50/50 odds of remembering anything from my apartment last night."

"Fuck. So it wasn't a dream?"

"No more so than the vast amount of scotch you must have put away to end up this hung over." She cues up the music for their new dance but hesitates with her finger over the play button. He may not appreciate the background noise at the moment.

"I didn't cry, did I?" He is still curled in a ball.

"No, there was no crying. So you really don't remember any of it?" Kate almost feels sorry for him, until she remembers how Castle is actually only interested in her as a subject for character research. He peeks out from under one arm.

"I think you made me coffee. And there was banging. But not the fun kind. Banging on the floor. Oh god-so not what I meant either." His head pops up as he lets out a gasp. "There wasn't any of the other kind of banging, was there?" His face has gone from green to deathly pale, eyes not only open but bloodshot and bugging out as he stares up at her.

So the prospect of sex with her is worse than facing the pain of a monster hangover?

She punches the play button.

"Owowowowowow! Turn it off. Turn it off. For the love of-"

Scowling in the direction of his now-writhing body, she jabs at the controls until the perky 50's jive cuts off. He lets out a whimper and pulls his fingers out of his ears, then fishes in his pocket for sunglasses. They land askew on his nose, and he cautiously curls up on his side again.

"No, Castle, we did not have sex. No matter how drunk you were, I guarantee that's not something you'd forget. Even though the thought of it is obviously unappealing to you."

"Oh no, no - not unappealing. Very not unappealing. God I can't say anything right with this ice pick sticking out of my temple." Her chest loosens at his emphatic denial of disgust. He continues in his whining ramble. "Do you remember that Star Trek episode with the creepy, invisible brain-sucking bugs that only Data could see? Because I'm pretty sure there's one attached right here." He points to a spot above his left eye. "Was 'Shake, Rattle, and Roll' really necessary?"

A pang of guilt has her shutting off the lights.

"It's our song for the week, assuming we don't get kicked off tonight. Dancing is the reason you're here, after all. Take an aspirin and shake it off."

"I already took three. They were the baby ones, though, I think."

Castle pushes up onto his knees and guzzles half the water in his bottle.

"I would have thought a celebrity party animal like you would be able to hold his liquor."

"I am not a party animal. And the last time I drank this much was the night I found Meredith naked in our bed with her director."

Oh... Oh. Kate had always assumed Castle had been the reason his marriage had ended...

"I don't usually drown my sorrows quite so thoroughly." Castle sits cross-legged, bottle of water pressed to his head, but he looks her straight in the eye with no trace of humor or sarcasm as he continues. "I'm sorry I showed up at your place last night, and I'm sorry for whatever inappropriate, embarrassing things I said, and most of all I'm sorry about the magazine. I never meant for you to get dragged into publicity you didn't want. You're a private person. I get it. I've already asked my publicist to do what she can to get the bottom feeders to leave you alone. Told her I wouldn't do anymore press unless they guaranteed you wouldn't be involved."

The block of ice starts to melt at the pit of Kate's stomach, and something like pity wells up, spills out before she can stop herself.

"Let's get out of here."

She disconnects her iPod and gathers her things, crossing the floor to where he sits, unmoving.

"Wha-? We have to start the jive. Bill Haley and his Comets? You don't really think we're getting kicked off tonight, do you? Oh god, Kate, I'd never forgive myself."

She holds out her forearm.

"I'm not giving up. I don't know who's going home tonight, but I know you're no good to me half dead from alcohol poisoning. Come on."

He takes the offered arm and she heaves him up off the ground.

"Where are we going?"

"Your hangover has a date with Jose's."

"No offense to Jose or his hangover, but I'm not really into that sort of-"

"Shut up, Castle. You need chilaquiles."

The mask of agony recedes from his face as he turns, brow arching, and smirks back at her.

"Ooo, is that some wild, kinky California thing?"

Leaning in with a smouldering look, she wets her lips and drops her register to smoky velvet.

"Yes. Wild, kinky California breakfast food."

"Damn."

# * # * # * # * #

Acid churns in her gut as the house lights drop, leaving only the blinding beam of spotlights pinning the three couples to their marks on the stage.

Jeopardy.

The game show theme song chirps to life in her head, and she indulges in a moment's fantasy involving Alex Trebek and a light pen. She had taken the test to be a contestant once in her teens.

"Our final three couples are moments away from from knowing their fate. Will it be elimination, or a chance to dance another day?"

Tom Bergeron has a way of crushing fantasies.

Castle's fingers flex, and his chest expands. He is taking this remarkably well, all things considered. Jose's runny yolks and spicy pico de gallo had worked their magic on his stomach and head this morning, and despite his lingering suffering, Kate had found herself laughing through most of the meal. His nap afterward seemed to have done him good, too, and he had appeared at the studio this afternoon almost his usual cheerful self.

That cheer had dissolved at Tom's announcement in the first segment that they were among the bottom three couples for the week. An hour of drawing out the tension has left beads of sweat along her hairline, threatening to drip through the rainbow of her eyeshadow at any sudden movement.

"And the next couple who is safe for another week is…"

The absence of sound brings her attention to the pounding of her pulse in her ears. Castle grips her hand.

"Elizabeth and Mitchell." Kate pastes on a smile to acknowledge the extremely relieved New York-based talk show hostess now hugging Kate's old friend. The woman has improved drastically since week one, and Mitch has bragged about how seriously she takes their rehearsals, flying coast to coast between her show and this one every week. Kate cannot begrudge them for escaping being cut.

Tom barrels on as the pair joins the others upstage. "Congratulations, you two! That leaves us with Rick and Kate and Jeannie and Anton." Another interminable dramatic pause, this time with a drumroll. Kate promises herself if she makes it off this stage tonight without being axed that she will have words with the band leader.

"Jeannie, Anton, Rick, Kate, whomever goes home tonight has still survived this dancefloor for four weeks. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

Jeannie, a former child star turned QVC sweater hawker, barely knows her right foot from her left, according to Anton. They have been in the bottom three since the first episode. How Castle and Kate could be on the same short list for elimination in week four as this well-meaning grandma is beyond Kate's comprehension. No, not beyond. She and Castle have landed here honestly. They committed the cardinal sin of dance partners: letting their personal lives get in the way of the dance. Tom even sounds disheartened as he continues.

"But one of you did have the lowest combined total of judges' scores and viewer votes from last night."

So much for the tabloid scandal driving up their phone-in vote numbers. At least in that case, the damn article would have been of some use.

"And the couple going home tonight is…"

A reedy, un-miced voice from the audience breaks the silence.

"Save Castle!"

That draws their gazes up, and while Rick beams, tugging Kate in closer to his side, Kate has to press her lips tight not to yell at Lanie to sit the F down.

Tom extends his pause to let the crowd settle, one beat, two, God how can the network allow this much dead air?

"Jeannie and Anton."

Hope zings up Kate's spine, and she grimaces, hoping to cover the bubbling joy with an appropriately sympathetic frown for their competition. Hugs to the losing team before the montage of their time in the competition melt into the steel grip of Castle's arms. His lips press into the shell of her ear, his voice soft so the microphones cannot hear.

"Never again."

# * # * # * # * #

Thanks to Alex for the beta. This one is shorter, in hopes that I can get the next few chapters posted more quickly. Thanks for hanging in with me.

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	9. Chapter 9

Cheek to Cheek Chapter 9

"Why are there no lifts?" Castle leans his weight on his hands, gripping the thick cords of muscle bulging above his knees and sucking down air.

"What?" Kate huffs out, her elbow propped against the audio shelving as she stops the peppy Big Band tune. Two days into jive rehearsal and Castle is all energy and enthusiasm. His endurance shows no trace of his heavy night.

"Lifts. Me, picking you up off the ground and tossing you to the roar of the crowd."

"The producers won't let us do lifts until the freestyle in the finale. You read the contract." It's a cop out; she puts the odds 70/30 against her getting away with it. Fine. 80/20.

"But this is jive. Malik and Brandi did all kinds of tricks when they did jive. Scored huge on the call-in vote." Castle is upright now, his water bottle poised at his lips, trails of sweat painting his brow, neck and biceps. Something flutters low in her gut at the image, but she pushes past it, back to snark.

"Why don't you ask Malik to be your partner, if you want to do lifts so badly?" Kate puts her back to him. If he can see her eyes he will call her bluff.

"Kate, I'm being serious. Why can't we do lifts if they did them?"

"Malik doesn't follow rules well." Kate drops the charade of adjusting levels on the equalizer, winces when her back flattens against the ice sheet of the mirror.

"So you're saying they cheated? Aren't the judges supposed to take points off for things like that?"

"Malik gets away with a lot. Besides, there are ways to bend the rules, make things look like a lift but not quite meet the definition." One red-lacquered fingertip paints a spiral up into the air then dives toward the floor.

"So we do that, too." His bottle is back on the floor and his fists rest wide and heavy on his hips. A tendril of resentment uncurls in her gut.

"I don't think so."

"Why not?" Eyes wide, brow furrowed, he has no idea. Something snaps.

"Frankly, Castle, I don't trust you." She pushes off the mirror and stalks toward him. "After all the stunts you've pulled?" She ticks his transgressions off one by one on her fingers. "The death drop you changed in the middle of the foxtrot after I said no, my purple knees from tripping me all week during mambo, the way you wrenched my arm last week in quickstep, coming in too hung-over to learn jive? Why should I trust you to do something like a lift? A move that has to be perfectly rehearsed and timed and executed with no last second changes or intentional mistakes just to get back at me?"

"Hey, I apologized for all those things, and I got better. And about last week? I wasn't the only one being petty. You stepped on my foot!" He advances toward her.

"You grabbed my ribs while I was facing the judges." She holds her ground as he bellows back.

"You were taunting me." Castle closes in until she can feel the heat radiating off his body, see his saucer-sized pupils.

"Taunting?" Planting her feet, she leans in, drops her voice. "I was stating the truth."

His next words match her more civilized tone, but the spark in his eyes is gone.

"In my ear. In the middle of our routine. It was unprofessional, and it was mean, and you did it on purpose to make me screw up." Her heart stutters and sinks, but she holds onto the anger as he races on. "You know, I think you want to get us kicked off. That way, I'll go home to New York, and you won't have to deal with me ever again."

Heat rises into her face. That he could even suggest such a thing, when all she has wanted all along is to keep him - keep them - in the contest. To win.

"You know what?" Cocking her head to one side, she backs away. "I don't have to put up with this. I'm supposed to be teaching you the jive, not listening to you compare us to Brandi and Malik, and insult me." Grabbing her bag, she makes for the door. "Maybe you should just stick with what you know and go do some public groping for the tabloids!"

Breathless from sprinting down the stairs, Kate slams her car door and wrenches the gear to reverse before the tears come.

# * # * # * #

The first weak light of morning creeps over the honey-planked floor, catching the tip of Kate's left toe every time she slides it out into second position to plié.

Falling into the structure and discipline of a ballet barre routine fills in the cracks in her armor from her fight with Castle the day before.

Ballet is to ballroom dance what ballroom is to Dancing with the Stars: a foundation, a center from which to elaborate and interpret and build.

As the scherzo crescendos, she arches back, reaching up and out as far as her center of balance allows. When her head tips far enough to see behind her, she stifles the urge to collapse in on herself with a shriek.

Castle is standing just inside the door of their rehearsal studio, two coffees clutched in his hands, staring. Kate completes her stretch, dropping farther back, but he does not move. Righting herself, she stretches forward, fingernails grazing the floor at her feet as she bends her knees. Again upside down, she glances at her partner: still watching.

"Beautiful." Castle breathes the word more than says it, making Kate question whether she hears it at all over the orchestra.

The music finishes, but by the time she is upright, his mask is back on.

"Your music is beautiful. Who is that, Bach?" He sets aside the coffees and his bag.

"Schumann." Finished with the first set of exercises, Kate crosses to the table near the music, collects her coffee, sips to test the temperature. A truce, then. For now.

"I was never good with Baroque composers." Castle toes off his sneakers to put on dance shoes. "You've obviously done some ballet."

"For about a decade. Before I got serious about ballroom." Kate takes a larger swallow of her drink; the vanilla tickles her nose.

"I did a little bit, too."

Kate's mouthful of coffee almost ends up on the floor, but she fakes a cough, recovers enough to deposit the cup safely on the table.

"Seriously?"

"I liked the jazz and tap better, but Miss Toots insisted you had to do ballet to get to do those, so..."

Kate coughs again to stifle her laugh. Miss Toots? The next section of her barre playlist is beginning, and she quirks a smile in the direction of her partner as an idea hits her.

"You think you remember anything Miss Toots taught you?"

"Uh, yeah. Some."

Kate returns to her earlier spot at the barre, turning back to her frozen partner.

"You comin', Castle?"

They work for half an hour, one behind the other. He follows most things easily, rusty on the quick combinations, but his turnout is decent. His arms are a little awkward, no surprise since it's his biggest flaw in ballroom, too, but he makes it through the rest of her warm-up.

"Not bad," she says as she steps back and shakes out her legs.

"Been a while. Things don't always move the way I remember." Castle reaches up toward the ceiling, back and arms rippling as the muscles stretch and give.

"Welcome to middle age. I hear it only gets worse if you stop."

"Are you calling me old?" He flexes his biceps in her direction.

"If the orthopedic shoe fits..." But she lets the smile show through for a change.

"Guess I'll just have to keep dancing then." He sends her his own funny little grin in the mirror. "Ballet brings back memories. Spent a lot of time under tutus as a teenager."

Her jaw drops open in horror, and his brows shoot up.

"Not what I meant." His hands rise in surrender. "I meant lifting tutus-lifting the girls in their tutus."

"You danced pas de deux?"

"I was the only boy in a class with thirteen girls; lifting was my only job. Built up some killer arms, though. You ever do partner work?"

"Some. I got too tall. None of the boys could lift me in high school."

He steps in behind her, finds her eyes in the mirror, and anchors his hands at her waist.

"Up you go." Warm breath ghosts across the nape of her neck, sending up goose bumps, pulling down her eyelids. A decade melts away, and her body responds on instinct.

Kate rises onto her toes, lowers into a deep plié, and jumps. His hands grip on either side of her core, and she floats up into the air, those massive arms lifting her feet off the ground.

"Lay back, if you remember." She's just left the ground, mind trying not to imagine those massive hands against bare skin.

Muscle memory guides her into the cambré, almost a full backbend suspended over his head. His hold is unwavering, leaves her breathless, from the pose or the nearness.

"And..."

His elbows bend and he lowers her like she is nothing at all. Straightening her back, she slides down his chest until her feet gently meet the floor.

"Not too tall for me."

Kate breathes, peers through lowered lashes at the pair they make in the mirror. Her dreamy, glazed look, the bright blush lighting the apples of Castle's cheeks. She shakes her head, steps away to the safety of the sound system, scrolls to something, anything other than this damn Tchaikovsky "Sleeping Beauty" suite. Once upon a dream.

"Let's get to work."

Kate runs them through the first half of their routine, forcing them both to focus on the intricate footwork. When they break for water, her blood has settled. Mostly.

"We should put in a lift."

This again? He can pick her up, could probably throw her, too. Doesn't mean she trusts him. But he cuts into her mental excuses.

"I saw the footage."

"What?"

"From the fall."

Her mind flashes to that night half a decade ago, Ben crumpled on the dance floor. A wave of nausea rolls up and she swallows. Hard.

"How did you- Where did you get video from back then?" Even international competitions did not archive footage. She had checked. Some sick part of her had wanted to see the whole thing unfold, frame by frame.

"You'd be amazed at what you can find on the Internet. It wasn't your fault, you know."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Her gut clenches. She needs to see this film. He cannot know more about her past than she does.

"Flash obviously tried to pull you out of it early."

"Flash." Air fills her lungs again, suddenly screaming for oxygen. Her brain kicks forward to last spring. Of course. Footage from season two. "It… it was still my fault. I'm the professional. I taught him the lift, I put it in the routine." Kate turns to the wall, pinches the bridge of her nose against the rush of relief. Some parts of her past should be hers, not fodder for book research. Castle's voice is tinny, off in the distance, when he continues.

"But he didn't do it the way you rehearsed. I could see it in your eyes, even though you kept a smile on your face. And he may have gotten kicked off the show, but you were the one who could have been hurt. You landed hard. Could have broken a bone."

Or worse. The crack when Ben went down still echoes in her ears.

"Yeah, well, I just bruised my pride." The icy cold water she gulps down puts her stomach back where it belongs. He is still talking.

"And learned your lesson about trusting amateurs. So did the producers, apparently. I did some digging. That first show of season two was when they changed the rules. Only let the couples do lifts in the freestyle in the finale."

"Too bad it took my bruised tailbone to convince them." Her right palm rubs at the ghost of the bruise from half a year ago. No fracture. Didn't mean she could sit for the rest of that month. Or lie down.

"I read our contract again." Castle follows her. "A lift is defined as a movement in which the leader fully supports the weight of the follower with no contact between the follower's body and the ground."

"And your point is?"

"You keep one toe on the floor."

Damn it. That was how she slipped the one almost-lift in their first week.

"We could do the thing where you slide through my legs, or that swirly one with the arm-spiral-shouldery... thing." His eyes are sparkling with it, hands gesturing wildly to mime the moves he has no names for.

Kate watches in silence, years of fear and broken trust warring with her instinct to share in that joy, feed it.

"Kate, I can lift you. And if you give me another chance, I promise I won't let you down. Never again."

His whispered promise that he would never again be their reason for coming in last echoes in her memory. This could be a huge mistake. Kate turns and marches toward her partner, reaching both arms out.

"Gimme your hands. And tighten up those killer arms. I can't slide if I'm holding onto spaghetti."

# * # * # * # * #

"You sure you don't wanna run it one more time?" Castle leans into the hamstring stretch, left heel balanced on the vanity top in their dressing room.

"We had three perfect run throughs this morning. Blocking rehearsal went fine. And if you touch my hair and mess up Rene's 'tres chic bouffant coif' before show time, he will probably kill you." Kate leans close to the mirror to tuck one stray curl into the maze of pins and hairspray and prays it stays put. Their hair and makeup crew have outdone themselves selling their 1950's theme.

"True. Fine." He straightens and stands, starts digging in his show bag. "Do you play Scrabble?"

"Only with my enemies."

"Figures." He slides the travel size version of the word game back into the bag. "Go fish?"

"Why not. But stand up. I'm too scared of Randall to sit on this crinoline." They have an hour until their cue, and so far no one has appeared backstage to distract them. "Did Alexis and Martha stay home this week?"

Castle deals and fans his cards out, studying.

"No, but they went shopping with Meredith this afternoon. Knowing how distracted she gets when my credit card is involved, they'll be in their seats 30 seconds before show time."

This is the first mention of his ex-wife in weeks. And since his hangover he has been the perfect pupil, at the studio on time, with coffee, offering to stay late to practice tricks, never begging off for other plans. Kate assesses her hand.

"Give me your eights. You gave your ex-wife your credit card?" She accepts a pair and a sour look from her partner, lays down the four eights beside the stockpile. "Fours?"

"Go fish. Are you kidding? Meredith would buy half of Rodeo Drive. No. Alexis has my credit card. At most, they will end up with a dress for Alexis' Halloween dance plus the matching shoes Meredith and Mother will try to talk her into. Queens?"

"Ah, so they won't be here for the Halloween show next week? Go fish."

He reaches for a card and adds it to his hand.

"Unfortunately, no, my pre-teen's social life is winning out over partying with dear old dad for once. It's too bad, too, I hear Elizabeth is throwing a big shindig after-"

A syncopated series of taps on the dressing room door interrupts, and Kate's stomach flutters. She knows that knock.

"Come in," Castle singsongs.

When the door opens a crack and a familiar head of dark curls pokes through, the cards fall from Kate's hands.

"Ben?" heat fills her face.

"Surprise?" Her former partner's smile is as big and infectious as she remembers. Kate squeezes past a confused Castle and dives into Ben's arms, clutching tight.

"It's so good to see you. What are you doing here?"

"In town for a conference. Your mom gave a talk on protecting yourself against malpractice yesterday. I stopped by afterward to say hi, and she invited me to come tonight."

Of course she had.

"That's great. You look amazing." Guilt worms through her as she recalls their last meeting. He had still been in the chair.

"So do you, Katie. Haven't changed a bit." Except of course, she has. "And this must be the infamous Rick Castle?" Ben reaches around her to shake hands. "You two look great together. I've seen every show - been recording them so I don't miss when I'm on call."

"Castle, this is Ben Wright. He was my dance partner after college." She smiles through the wave of regret that swamps her at the rush of memories.

"We won a lot of medals back then." Ben says the words without a blip in his grin or a waver in his voice.

"So good to meet you. And I take no credit for anything good that happens on stage," Castle thumbs in Kate's direction, "I'm just her arm candy. Now when we screw up? That's all me."

"I see some things never change." Ben winks at her, green eyes bright, but Kate draws in a quick breath, has to press her lips together to keep her face from crumpling. It had been her fault, not Ben's. "I'm sorry - I didn't realize the time. The show's going to start any minute. I should let you finish getting ready."

"Maybe we can catch up with you after the show?" Castle shakes his hand again.

"I'm sorry, I can't. I have a date with a stack of note cards. I start an orthopedics rotation when I get back to Boston, and my attending is supposed to be a stickler for anatomy. But I can't wait to see your piece." He places a kiss at Kate's jawline, careful to avoid her makeup. "Maird."

Her voice is gone, whole chest is hollowed out. She stares at the door, frozen, as Ben pulls it closed. Her vision tunnels, forcing her eyes shut.

"Wow, a dancing doctor?" Castle jabbers on behind her as her mind rewinds back five years. The sickening crack echoes as clearly as it did on that night, and she sways, planting her palm against the wall to keep herself upright.

"We're taking out the lifts."

The drone of Castle's voice stops.

"What?"

She drags air down into her lungs and opens her eyes.

"No lifts. No tricks. We're going with the first version I taught you."

He stares, mouth gaping, then a furrow appears between his brows.

"But Kate, we haven't rehearsed it that way in days. What's going on?" His hand reaches out for her elbow, but she wrenches it away.

"I can't do the lifts with you." Kate tries to push past him to get to the bathroom, but the layers of skirt and petticoats catch on the back of a chair, tangling more as her fingers fumble with the fabric to free herself. She doesn't know she is crying until fat, hot drops land on her arms, make dark splotches on the sateen.

"Hey." His one broad palm covers both of her hands, stopping her movement. His other arm comes around her shoulders. "Kate, it's okay. Talk to me. What's this about?" The words come warm to her ear as he unhooks the bit of costume caught on the chair and guides her to sit.

"I can't. It was my fault. It was all my fault." Once the spiral has begun, she can't stop it. Castle kneels at her feet, his hands clutched in hers.

Measuring her breaths, she feels the adrenaline ebb. When she sniffs, Castle hands her a tissue, uses another one to dab at her cheeks, trying to save her makeup.

"Better?" He passes her water, and she takes a long sip through the straw as she nods. "Wanna talk about it?" She shakes her head as she puts the water down. "Well, too bad. Because in half an hour we are going out on that stage, and we are doing those lifts."

"Castle, I said no lifts." The flicker of indignation yanks her firmly back into now. The smile pulls at the corners of the serious pucker of his mouth. Damn it. He did that on purpose.

"Yeah, I did. But I also meant it," Castle answers.

Fuck. She had said that last part aloud. What the hell is the matter with her filter?

"We fell. We were doing a fake-lift in the international championship finals."

"You and Ben. So you lost. So what?"

"We didn't just lose. When we went down, I hit hard, but not as hard as he did."

"He got hurt."

"Spiral fracture. Three surgeries that I know of. Never danced again."

"He's a doctor."

"He was pre-med at Stanford, just like I was pre-law. Said the doctors who helped him walk again made him want to help other people like him."

He hands her another tissue before the tears overflow.

"You blame yourself."

"Emile, our coach, grand champion. He spent that year teaching us all the tricks. We won, every competition. Until the international finals."

He stays silent. Waits her out. Damn him.

"Ben always said he caught his toe. There's no video. I felt him grab for my hand. It wasn't there when it should have been."

"You don't know, Kate. You just said there's no footage. How can you know?"

"I know."

"He seems happy. Thrilled to see you dance. Even if it was your fault somehow, he's forgiven you. Why can't you forgive yourself?"

Ignoring it, she keeps going, plowing through things she has never said to another living soul.

"I couldn't dance for a while. Took a job waitressing. Emile quit coaching."

"No one blames you. Ben doesn't blame you. I would have seen it on his face."

"What are you, a psychologist? We have stage faces. It's part of the job."

"Kate, no one fakes that kind of joy. No, I'm no trained expert, but I am a writer-I read people, their motivations. He is excited to see you dancing. He recorded the last three shows when he was working. There is no way that man harbors any resentment toward you."

"Emile never coached again."

"That was his choice, not yours. And you don't know it was because of the accident. Maybe he promised his wife he would retire. Maybe he wanted to take up painting. Are you still in touch?"

"No."

"Then quit projecting your guilt onto him."

"I never won again."

"Bullshit. I saw the medals at your apartment."

"I never came in first again."

"So? What, you have to win first place to feel fulfilled as an artist? Silly me, I always thought it was about the art."

Fuck him.

"No lifts. End of discussion."

"No. It's not the end. Week one? I would never have gone on if you'd let me get away with my mental bullshit. You don't get to do this." He grips her hands, pulls them to his chest. "I am not Ben. We are dancing jive, live on stage in front of millions of viewers across the world, and in front of my kid, and your mom, and my mom, and your dad. And yes, your ex-partner who got hurt dancing with you is going to be watching. But I'll bet you a thousand bucks he would rather see you dance and win and be happy than feel guilty about something that was not your fault." Castle stands, pulls her up out of her chair. "Kate Beckett does not give up because she's scared of failure. She doesn't quit when things get tough. She kicks her partner's ass, does a thousand crunches just because she can, and then she gets the job done."

Her eyes squeeze shut to staunch the flow of tears that she swears aren't there.

"Castle, I ca-"

"Five minutes!" a heavy fist beats against their door, and her shoulders jerk.

"You can. And you will. Because you were the one who told me it's irresponsible to make changes right before a performance. We go with what we rehearsed, or we don't go on. And we are going on."

# * # * # * #

"After last week's misstep in the quickstep, Rick and Kate were back in the swing with the jive." Tom Bergeron's wordplay introducing their week's rehearsal footage doesn't even register as Kate concentrates on inhaling through the swarm of butterflies. Her eyes blink shut, and the claws of dread being working their way up her spine.

"Hey." Castle tightens his grip on her hand. "Look at me." She opens her eyes to find his face inches away, blue eyes filling her field of vision. "What did you say to me that first night? You've got to get out of your head. We're going to go out there and dance, and we are going to hit every single trick, just like we did this morning."

Kate nods, still not trusting her voice. She might be sick.

"And if we don't," he quirks a self-deprecating smile at her, "then at least you'll finally be rid of me."

That snaps her out of her latest bout of self-doubt, regret of a different sort taking its place.

"Castle, I never wanted us to get kicked off. Whatever happens, win or lose, I need you to believe that I'm all in."

"He's used to topping the bestseller list. Can our novelist dance himself back to the top of the leaderboard?" Tom's voice booms over the backstage speakers, drawing her eyes to the stage manager, poised to signal their entrance.

But before she can step to her mark, her partner leans in, irises flashing with the electric blue of the stage lights, and seals his lips over hers. It lasts only an instant, just long enough for the spark to light her up from the inside.

"For luck," he says, gaze a little unfocused.

"Dancing the jive, Rick and Kate!"

"Damn it." Just as the band starts up, she swipes a thumb over the lipstick smear on Rick's mouth, grabs his hand, and pulls him out into their first spin.

# * # * # * #

A/N: Thanks to Alex, Jenny and Dia for beta reading this one. Thanks to everyone for the feedback, and thanks to my tumblr anon for the nudges. Keep it up and I hope I'll have a couple more chapters in the next couple of weeks.

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com


	10. Chapter 10

Cheek to Cheek 10

"Wh-wh-wh-whoa. Come again?" Lanie's recently painted fingernails flare as she flattens one palm in Kate's direction.

"He kissed me. Right before we went on stage. For luck." Kate's right foot rests on the ripped quad of the pedicure technician. She winces as the man's left thumb finds a knot in her instep. Lanie takes a swig of her champagne and continues.

"So that's three kisses in the past three weeks, all of which knocked you on your romantically challenged butt, and now you're writing them off because they were for a performance."

This is supposed to be a last-minute morning of relaxation at the spa with her best friend, not an intervention.

"There were extenuating circumstances."

"Now you sound like Katie Beckett, first freshman to be elected president of the Stanford Pre-Law Society."

"He didn't mean any of them." Apparently her knots have knots, and Wing addresses them one by one, biceps bulging with the effort in a way that does not remind her of her dance partner's arms. At all.

"He said that?" Lanie interrupts Kate's full body sigh as her right arch releases. Kate gasps when a steaming towel wraps around her feet and calves, tries to cover it with a hissed answer.

"No. Not... exactly."

"But you've talked about it. You've had an adult conversation about the boundaries in your entirely professional relationship."

"Not... exactly."

The deep red polish goes on her toes, like blood slicking over flesh. For an instant she is twelve, taking off pointe shoes for the first time, the sting of the freezing studio air biting the tips of her toes. The blood-soaked wrap of lambs wool takes strips of skin off when it comes away. She had danced through to the end of class while all the other girls had changed back to ballet shoes one by one. The callouses had come, thick and numb, to protect her from the pain of the thing she loved. Numb is still better than bleeding and broken.

"Then how, exactly, do you know he didn't mean those kisses?"

"I just know, ok?"

"Mmm hmm." Glittery black lacquers her best friend's toenails, each brush stroke catching the late morning sun through the windows of the nail salon. "If you ask me, three kisses-full frontal, lipstick smearing, face grabbing kisses-mean your writer boy has it bad. The man was mooning over you on national television last night. Your mom saw it. Half of America saw it. And Benji looked straight at me during the last commercial break and said, 'They look wonderful together.' That man trashed every boy you ever dated at Stanford. 'Not smart enough. Not cute enough. Wouldn't treat her right.'"

Kate huffs, but she can almost hear Ben's rant about the grunge rocker.

"And after two minutes in your dressing room and a minute and a half of watching you dance, he was ready to walk you down the aisle to Richard Castle."

"He was not."

"Boy was a way better judge of character than you were in college. He thinks Castle's all in, I believe him."

Her mind flashes to her words backstage:

_"I need you_ _to believe I'm all in." _

_Her feet hit the stage, smile pasted on her face, music bursting from the bandstand and every speaker, lights cutting off her view of the crowd. Castle's strong, precise hands anchor her for those first moments of terror until instinct fully kicks in._

_The whole band yells "Go!" with the audience joining in when Castle winks and sets his arms for her slide. Kate takes a breath and jumps, weightless for that one instant before she shoots between the vee of his legs, all her weight and momentum swinging on the fulcrum of Castle's flexed arms. With no time to doubt him or herself, she is swung back up, landing on her feet like she hadn't been bawling at the prospect of doing that trick half an hour before. Turning, she crouches for him to run and leap frog over her head. The crowd goes wild when he aces it and grabs her hands to swing her, spinning, to the floor and back up again. _

_Kate spins out, crossing to the opposite corner to wait for Castle's final knee slide, and finds herself grinning. Not for the audience, or the cameras, or out of instinct, but because dancing with Castle is fun. His running slide carries him halfway across the stage, stopping inches from her toes as the band calls out the final, "Shake, rattle and roll!" She leans down to do their silly, staged final pose, a chaste peck on the lips designed for the cameras, and Kate improvises. _

_When she fists her hand in the top two buttons of his crisp cotton shirt, Castle's eyes go wide. _

_When she yanks him up to her lips and slides her fingers into his hair, he lets out a moan. _

_When the judges give them three 10's, it takes everything she has to keep from kissing him again. _

_But she hadn't. Instead she had run. Excuses about her mom and dinner and "oh, sure, you can take tomorrow off to do Halloween things with Alexis," had fit nicely into her desire to flee and avoid. _

_And she had fled from from the frying pan into the fire, with her best friend raking the coals. Lanie clears her throat, pulling Kate back to the present_.

"Whatever Benji said, I'm not asking you to marry the guy, just enjoy being partners in a slightly expanded definition of the term." Lanie drains her flute of champagne as she lifts her flip-flop clad feet from the pedicure station and stands.

"No one ever accused Rick Castle of being shy. He explained away both times he kissed me. The third kiss was me ambushing him. If he changes his mind, wants something more, he's not going to keep his mouth shut."

"I keep hearing you talk about your partner, Rick. Keeps up with you on the dance floor. Needs the day off to carve pumpkins with his kid. Talks you down from whatever ledge you almost went off last night." Kate blanches but stops short of interrupting at the single raised eyebrow from her friend. "Then he leads you through the best ballroom routine I've seen you do since you were with Ben. But any time the hint of feelings or romance or kissing comes up, you talk like Castle is this womanizing jerk millionaire on the cover of tabloids. The way I see it, you have to decide, which Rick Castle did you kiss last night?"

Wing slides one flip flop onto Kate's freshly painted foot, then the other.

"All set, Ms. Beckett."

Kate reaches for her purse, only to be waved off by her long-time pedicurist.

"We are honored to have such a celebrity in our shop. This time is on us." Wing gestures toward the magazine rack, usually filled with high-end fashion and interior design magazines, and Kate registers her own picture on the glossy cover in the front slot.

"Thank you? I- uh- may I?" she stands and grabs for the magazine as Wing nods and tidies his station.

The photo, from the final pose of their dance, captures a high-definition account of their sweaty lip-lock. A little too convincing, apparently. The headline reads: "More than Partners? DWTS couple Rick and Kate's show-stopping kiss, more on page 25."

# * # * # * #

Kate's stomach churns as she recrosses her legs, shifting in the overstuffed leather chair at ABC's production offices.

She's about to get fired.

They had scored perfect 10's on Tuesday, were named "safe" in the first segment of the results show last night. Her successful avoidance of Castle in the green room had prevented any conversation about kisses or feelings. From the top of the leaderboard, things had been looking up. Until her phone had rung while she was toweling her hair dry this morning.

Scarlet toenails peep up at her from her pumps, and she nearly smiles to see something other than dance shoes on her feet. Before the improvement in her mood can take hold, the silky fabric lining of her pinstriped suit pants slides under her thigh, forcing her to scoot up in the seat again.

God, what she wouldn't give for her war paint and Randall's latest collection of well-placed sequins right now-armor to face her doom. She fights her battles best backward in high heels.

"Can I get you something, Ms. Beckett? Water? Coffee?" Peter Ford's administrative assistant, William, smiles from behind his immaculate desk and clicks at the keys of the silver keyboard.

"No, thank you." Keeping her last cup down has required all her concentration since the show runner had requested her presence in his office. Kate can think of only one reason he would call them in after such a fantastic routine: after watching the tape, they caught something the judges had missed or had chosen to ignore.

Why had she let Castle talk her into all those tricks?

There hadn't been time to look for footage of the routine online before she left this morning. Even without that proof to reassure her, she knows she kept one toe down at all times. But Castle didn't. That leapfrog over her head had been a risk. She could argue that since his fingers had barely grazed her shoulders, she had not supported his weight-he had jumped that high without any help from her.

But looking at the routine as a whole, all those cheats one after another? She is getting fired. At best maybe she will have her pay cut and they will make an example of them on air in the next show, maybe take points off their scores after the fact.

Her head starts to ache. Maybe more coffee would help. Before she can ask, William rises from his ergonomic chair and rounds the desk toward Ford's office door.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to review today's schedule with Mr. Ford before you go in. Make yourself at home, and I'll be out to get you in a moment."

As soon as the door closes, Kate grips the piping at the hem of her jacket and tugs downward, pinching the bridge of her nose with her other thumb and forefinger. Sweat collecting between her shoulder blades glues her neatly pressed button down to her back. She rolls her shoulders but the fabric won't let go. Before she can stand and shuck the jacket off, the outer door creaks open, revealing Castle holding a cardboard tray with two coffees.

"Sorry I'm late, I was dropping Alexis and my mother off at the airport. Why has no one figured out transporter technology yet?" He passes her a paper cup and flops into the chair beside her, pulling his phone from his suit pocket, smiling as he taps a quick text message.

One look at her partner's face and a long drag on her latte loosens the knot in her gut. She uncrosses her legs to tuck one under her.

"Let me guess, you were carving Star Trek pumpkins yesterday."

"Kirk, Spock, and Mr. Scott. How'd you know?" He tips the phone in her direction to reveal a photo of three lit jack-o-lanterns, each carved in an intricate silhouette of a classic sci-fi character. "We were debating which Star Trek technology should be invented next, since they've done the communicators." He flips his phone closed with a snap.

"Padds, obviously."

He frowns, finishes his sip of coffee and leans in, voice dropping the sing song tone.

"Alexis said the same thing. But we have laptops. And I don't think the touch screen technology is there yet. I say phasers. We already have lasers that can vaporize... things."

Her brain kicks over into their usual rhythm.

"You do know the only lasers powerful enough to do that would be the size of a 747."

"Small detail. You know, I saw some pretty awesome mock-ups doing research for Storm Approaching."

"Derrick Storm disarmed a nuclear warhead, not a laser cannon-"

"And the Russian lit minor finally admits to being a fan."

Kate feels her eyes go wide, mouth opening to recant, but she can find no plausible excuse. Damn. Castle's face blooms in a grin.

"You thought I missed that full collection of my hardbacks on your bookshelf, between Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, didn't you?"

"Just because I happen to own some of your books-"

"_All_ of my books."

"-doesn't mean I'm a fan."

"Wait, are any of those books _signed_?" He sits up, leans in.

A blush creeps up her neck, and she ducks her head, hiding behind the curtain of her hair.

"You waited in line, didn't you?" His smile melts, tone going serious. "We've met before and you didn't tell me."

"Not that it's any of your business, but my mom waited in line to get one signed." She leaves out the part that Kate had been standing right next to her in that line snaking around the block.

"Seriously? Your mom reads my books?"

"My mom handed me In Hail of Bullets over one Christmas break from Stanford. Took away my LSAT review until after New Years so I didn't get burnt out studying. When I told her I liked to read Crime and Punishment, not cheesy murder mysteries, she told me it was my choice. But she said unlike the real world, in your books, justice always triumphs. Said they reminded her why she went into law in the first place." She tucks her hair behind one ear and chances a look up at him, finds him watching her, eyes soft. "And she thought you were adorable."

"I don't know what to say. Thank her for me?"

She returns his half smile, the sincerity of his words halting her mental spiral of regret over sharing so much. The knob turns on the inner office door, and William's head pokes out.

"Mr. Castle, Ms. Beckett, Mr. Ford will see you now."

As they file in and sit, Kate's developing ulcer rejects the latte, gurgling with enough volume to draw a raised eyebrow from Castle. Ford looks over sleek black frames and opens the top folder in a stack at his left elbow.

"Have you both seen this?" He presses the tip of one index finger on the glossy magazine cover, then flips it up.

"No." Castle grips the armrests of his seat, starts to rise, gaze fixed on the image Kate already knows too well.

Oh fuck. She's not losing her job over her choreography, she's losing it over improvisation. Planting one hand on Castle's shoulder, she shoves him back down into his chair.

"Yes, sir, I have seen it." Her brief glare silences her partner's high-pitched stream of question words. "And let me just start by apologizing. That kiss at the end of the routine was not what we rehearsed." Her brain grabs onto the only reasonable explanation and runs with it. "I was acting on instinct. We had lost the week before, and I thought we needed some spark to get the audience voting. I let the adrenaline and nerves get to me. It was completely unprofessional, and it will never happen again."

Looking down his nose over the wire rimmed lenses, Ford flips to page 25, marked with a yellow post-it note, and trails his finger down the margin.

"So I take it that you two are not, in fact, 'partners in every sense of the word,' as our dear friend, Georgio Fiorello, would lead his readers to believe?"

"Absolutely not," she replies, without a pause for Castle to weigh in.

"Hmm." His brows pinch, lips pressing together slightly. "Far be it from me to dictate any aspect of the personal lives of my talent-"

Kate interrupts before he can pass judgement.

"Sir, you don't have to say another word. I promise there is nothing even resembling a romantic relationship between myself and my dance partner, and there never will be."

Glancing in Castle's direction hoping for his confirmation, instead she sees his face fall, shoulders deflating to sit back in his chair. Ford slaps the magazine down on his blotter, drawing both their gazes.

"That's too bad. Because I think your instincts were spot on, Ms. Beckett."

Warmth floods Kate's face, but Ford barrels on before she can vocalize a question.

"I have here the official numbers from this week's call in vote." He opens the next manilla jacket in the stack, revealing a color-coded spreadsheet. "Do you have any idea how many votes we get on an average week?"

They shake their heads.

"Around 1, maybe 1.5 million. On a season finale? Three million tops. How many votes do you think came in this week?"

Both continue staring.

"1.9 million. How many of those do you think were for you?"

They take it as a rhetorical question, and Ford taps his manicured fingernail beside a yellow highlighted cell on the sheet.

"Five hundred and four thousand, nine hundred forty seven votes. For you." He flips to the next page. "Early Nielsen projections put the results show last night as our highest rated results show ever: 24 million viewers."

Kate's jaw drops. Castle's eyebrows are almost to his hairline. So... not getting fired.

"I would never presume to direct what you two do in your free time, but this?" he points to their photo on the cover again, "was some Emmy-worthy acting. Keep up the good work on stage. And if you happen to be asked about this little rumor of a personal relationship, please don't feel any pressure to confirm it, but feel free not to deny it, either."

Now Kate's eyebrows shoot up. An entirely different warmth bubbles up, red starting to edge in on her vision. Before she can voice her indignation, Ford stands and circles his desk, reaching out a wide palm to shake her hand.

"Ms. Beckett, Mr. Castle, so kind of you to come in on such short notice. I should let you get back to the dance floor - big Halloween show next week." He releases her and turns to Castle, who cannot seem to decide on a facial expression. "I spoke to Randall yesterday, told him to pull out all the stops for costumes. No doubt you have something spectacular planned." Ford ushers them toward the door and opens it, smiling in dismissal. "Best of luck."

# * # * # * #

"Why can't we dance to the _Ghostbusters_ theme? Or "Thriller?" Or the _Addams Family_?"

After two days of rehearsing their rumba to "Spooky," Castle is still trying to suggest alternatives through the curtain in Randall's changing room.

"One, I refuse to go on national TV wearing ectoplasm or a proton pack, and two, those aren't rumbas. Besides, your girlfriend and Malik called "Ghostbusters" weeks ago." If only this week would have been foxtrot, they could have used "Witchcraft," but their Latin style is shaping up.

"Well, personally, I think your song choice is phenomenal, Katherine." Randall has it playing on repeat on the small stereo in the corner, the signature bass guitar filling the costume designer's space. "I've been listening to it for inspiration all week."

"This costume is certainly... inspired." Two assistants stand behind the curtain with Kate, helping make sure the bikini-like sparkled body suit covers the appropriate bits to keep the broadcast's PG rating.

Like many Latin dance costumes, the only part that resembles a dress is the swath of blood red silk draped from shoulder to thigh and attached to her waist-just enough material to swish with her hips as she dances.

The last verse of their song plays as she shimmies her shoulder into one crystal-encrusted strap.

"Just like a ghost, you've been haunting my dreams, so I'll propose... on Halloween."

"Why would anyone do that?" Castle's voice wafts over the curtain from Randall's fitting platform.

"Do what?" Randall's voice comes from the same direction as Castle's. He must be adjusting something.

"Propose on Halloween."

"I adore Halloween. The one night a year when everyone is required to pay attention to what they wear. I'd say it's the perfect time to be proposed to," Randall replies.

"But it's also the one night of the year when everyone pretends to be someone they're not. If I ever got married again, I'd want to ask as myself, dead serious, down on one knee. That's the point, 'Marry _me_,' as in Richard Castle, not some guy behind a mask playing Edgar Allen Poe or the Green Lantern."

Funny, since "Richard Castle" isn't even his real name. He's not the only one who does research.

"I'm flattered, Richard, truly I am, but I'm not looking for a long-term commitment right now…"

"It's probably for the best. I don't have the fashion sense to be your arm candy, Randall."

"True, true. But even so, I'm sure you'll make someone a very nice trophy husband one day. You certainly have the Red Carpet street cred going for you."

"That's my publicist, not me. It sells books. Don't get me wrong, I love a good party, but most nights I'm home with my daughter."

Kate speaks up from behind her curtain, the costumers having released her to check herself in the mirror.

"Carving geeky pumpkins and crying over Charlie Brown movies."

"Hey now, I shared that story in confidence - what happened to professional/celebrity confidentiality?"

"Totally not a thing."

"Well maybe it should be, but regardless, yes, I do happen to believe in the Great Pumpkin. And Santa Claus."

"And probably the tooth fairy." Kate shifts the fabric panel farther over her shoulder, sees even more cleavage, shifts it back. It's red. It's rumba. It's Halloween. She's worn less on stage.

"The tooth fairy is a capitalist construct with absolutely no basis in myth or legend." He's dead serious.

"Alexis told you her friends were getting $20 a tooth, and you believed her, didn't you?" Kate slides the curtain back and steps out into the light, sees Randall inspecting the sequins running down one seam of Castle's pants.

"Of course I did, because they actually were getting $20, and what kind of par-ent-" He goes mute when his eyes land on her stepping in front of the bank of mirrors.

"Oh, my darling you look stunning, if I do say so myself." Randall glances up from his spot tucking in Castle's waistband. "Breathe, Richard, or I'll have to start all over."

Castle's eyes devour every inch of her, coming to rest on her face, and her one arched eyebrow. He blinks, opening his mouth and closing it once before he gets words out.

"Are you sure you're allowed to wear that on network television?"

"What's the matter, Castle? Can't handle a few little sparkles?"

"Oh, I can handle sparkles. It's all that space in between them I'm worried about." His gaze drifts down.

"Hey, eyes up here." She points both thumbs up toward her face and Castle shakes his head, looks down at Randall.

"You sure that thing's gonna stay on?"

"Mr. Castle, this is Dancing with the Stars, we do not have wardrobe malfunctions. It will stay on until someone takes it off. Now go change your clothes before you sprain... something."

# * # * # * #

"_Love is kinda crazy -_"

Kate flicks her toe, plants her foot, snakes her hips forward into Castle's and then slowly, slowly swivels them around.

"_\- with a spooky little girl like you._"

She drops back, arching until the curve of her dewy, naked spine is pressing tight into the flat of Castle's palm.

The lights come up and the crowd erupts, everyone applauding on their feet by the time she is upright and taking a bow.

Three more tens. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Backstage the crew wears costumes, and the snack table overflows with orange and black treats and bowls of candy corn.

"You guys gonna make it?" Minutes after the credits have rolled, Elizabeth passes them already on her way out of the dressing room hallway.

Kate stays silent, still considering skipping the unofficial cast Halloween party at the talk show host's beachfront rental house.

"Wouldn't miss it." Castle reaches out to fist-bump his fellow New Yorker.

"You'd better keep that costume on. No one gets in without one."

"And I'm way more scared of you than Randall." Castle says it with a twinkle in his eye, but Kate believes him. Elizabeth has become the social coordinator for their cast, and whatever he might say about shunning the limelight, her partner enjoys being in with the in crowd.

"As well you should be, Ricky. I'll see you later." Elizabeth winks and heads for the parking lot.

Annoyance heats her cheeks, but she tamps it down and follows Castle into their dressing room. No right to be jealous. Another "love triangle" would probably be even better for ratings.

Tucking her performance shoes into her bag, Kate slips her feet into red sneakers and reaches for the first in a line of hooks keeping her dress in place. When her fingers fumble, she sighs. She needs help. Randall and his people are always around after the show, but with most of the costumes on the intricate side tonight, the costumers are going to be in high demand. She grabs her robe from the rack on the door and starts back out into the hall.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I need Monique or Liv to help get me out of this."

"I could always help you take it off." He pulls that irresistible smirk, and the half-moon dimple appears in his right cheek.

Ever since their fitting, she has caught him staring - a beat late on a turn, half a count too slow taking his hands off her hips. It's an awareness humming between them that dance partners just don't have - that the two of them quickly got over that first day in rehearsal. Partners are more like siblings than lovers, but the last few days something has been different. A spark.

"In your dreams, Castle."

"True." The matching dimple punctuates his smile as his gaze goes unfocused.

She rolls her eyes.

"But why do you want to take off your costume? What about the party?"

"I'm tired, I don't think-"

"Uh uh. No way. You've run off after every show for weeks. It's Halloween. We just landed another perfect score. It's time to celebrate." Castle holds out his hand as if inviting her to dance. "What do you say, will you be my date?"

The want warms every nerve ending, clutches deep in her chest.

Then a voice that sounds suspiciously like Peter Ford's interrupts the flip flop of her heart. "Keep up the good work." She takes a deep breath.

"Okay, why not?"

Castle beams when she takes his hand, his thick fingers threading through hers.

"With any luck, someone will snap a photo and leak it to the Inquisitor, bump our numbers for next week." She reaches back, grabs her red strappy heels from her bag.

His hand stiffens, smile closing down as he unlinks their fingers and loosely clasps her palm instead.

"Good point." He nods once, tips his head toward the door before leading her out. "Knowing Elizabeth, she probably invited half of the local TV gossip grapevine."

# * # * # * #

The house vibrates with the DJ's bass line. Giving up on knocking, Kate tugs the door open and a blast of "Disturbia" numbs her ear drums. Glancing back, she finds Castle with a hand up at his hairline. They push inside the overheated entryway, the air sticky-sweet with the scent of fake fog.

C list celebrities and local LA TV personalities sip martinis in costume. Castle waves to Elizabeth, who raises her glass from the center of a cluster of pleather-clad women sporting animal tails and ears.

Kate points in the direction of the patio and gets a nod of agreement from her partner.

The breeze off the water cools her already damp skin, and they lean against the deserted deck's railing.

"You want a drink?" Castle's too loud voice overcomes the ringing in her ears.

"Not if we have to go back in there to get one."

"I think we're in luck. Hold on." He steps around the unmanned bar draped in spider webs and reaches down, comes up with a dripping, orange-labeled bottle of champagne. "Our hostess has good taste in bubbles. I can go in for cups-"

"Don't risk it. We can share."

Castle uses a cloth napkin to wipe down the bottle, then scans the beach below.

"Walk?"

Nodding, Kate starts down the steps, stopping on the bottom stair to unstrap her heels. Looping them over one finger, she turns back to find him barefoot, sequined cuffs just brushing the sand.

"Left or right?" Castle gestures with the foil-wrapped neck of the bottle as he untwists the wire. He palms the cork, turning until it releases a soft sigh, and leaves the trash on the corner of the bottom step.

Kate turns right, and they make their way up the beach, passing the bottle back and forth. The fizz bursts on her tongue, and her spine relaxes one stiff, stacked length of muscle at a time. Sand slides smooth between her toes, the shifting surface forcing her achilles to lengthen with each lurching step.

Castle takes the bottle, his fingers clasping hers over the green glass, lingering, along with his sideways glance. She slides free, folding her arms across the swath of scarlet fabric and crystals covering her cleavage. Lifting his chin, he looks to the sky over the open stretch of water.

"Pretty moon." The half-circle glows silver through a patchy bank of clouds, lights the empty stretch of beach just enough for walking. He doesn't seem to need a reply, so she lets her silence agree.

Three houses up, another party spills out onto the patio. Stevie Wonder's vocals waft down-"_Very superstitious..._" Castle stops, uses the bottom of the bottle to carve a divot in the sand, and places his shoes beside it.

"Ms. Beckett, may I have this dance?"

Moonlight flares the twinkling blue of his eyes, catches the crest of whitecaps rolling in behind him.

"I…" The snarky retort just won't come.

"I'm not asking you to perform. I'm asking you to dance. For fun. You remember how to do that?"

"Sure." Kate takes his offered hand, and he pulls her in close. His hands fall exactly where they should be, but he relaxes his shoulders, keeps his lead loose.

"_You believe in things you don't understand…_"

The music crescendos and he spins her out, tugs her in, and then the beach is upside down. A note of surprised laughter escapes as her fingertips brush the sand. He lifts her from the dip as the song ends, brings her back into his chest.

"See? Fun."

Kate can't help answering his wide grin. But when the first notes of the next song register, her eyes narrow.

"_Now I've...had..._"

"You have got to be kidding me."

"What?" Castle's poker face greets her as she steps back and rolls her eyes.

"_...the time of my life…"_

"This song?" She hugs her ribcage trying to counteract the goosebumps erupting over her arms. Must be the breeze.

"What about it?"

"Seriously? You don't recognize this?"

"Uh..."

"Come on."

"Oh that dance movie!" He points toward the source of the music, brow pinching. "With the guy…" His fingers snap three times before he holds out his palm in her direction. "Patrick Duffy."

"Swayze. Patrick Swayze. Dirty Dancing. You never saw it?"

"Chick flicks weren't my thing in the 80's. You must have though, what with your dance background-" Castle twirls his index finger, pointing down, miming… something.

"No. No, I was 8 when that came out. Wasn't supposed to see PG-13 movies." She emphasizes the true parts of that statement, turns to step closer to a wave lapping up, toes digging into the wet arc of sand left behind.

"Well, we do know how to mambo, I guess." The nearness of his voice startles her, she takes a breath, covers the skittish jump of her nerves with a nod.

"Good ear. Yeah, we do." When she turns, his chest confronts her, hand up to take hers.

The first steps are standard mambo fare, but his hips rolling right in time does give her pause. Then he does a little flick with his foot, and damn it, so does she.

"You're such a liar!" Her outburst encourages the grin brimming at his lips but doesn't stop his footwork. "You know this dance!"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just doing the mambo, like you taught me."

He swirls her around, palm cupping the back of her head as she ducks under his arm. In the instant her eyes close, she sees Jennifer Grey's chiffon skirt float out on spiraling currents of air. When she comes out of it, her head tosses left on the beat, even before his palm can guide her in that direction.

"_So we take each other's hand-_"

A weight lifts inside her, and Kate smiles. She throws her head right and owns it.

"_Because we seem to understand the urgency._"

He lifts her arm above her head and she spins one, two, three turns in a perfect arc around him, comes out giggling.

"Pot. Kettle. You so know this dance."

"Shut up and mambo, Castle."

His arms flex in her line of sight, and she cannot help thinking they are bigger than Swayze's. When they come up on the big lift, his eyebrows rise.

"Wanna try it?"

"You're out of your mind. That's one of the hardest lifts in ballroom. We've never even rehearsed it."

He pulls her against him instead, pausing to wait out the counts.

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

"Better luck next time."

Crinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes as his smile grows.

"What?" She resets their frame.

"You just said there would be a next time. Gonna hold you to that." The choreography steals her concentration. It has been almost two decades since she had worn out the VHS tape rewatching the final scene, coffee table shoved to one side so she had room to dance in her parent's living room, but the steps live inside her, come out with the melody and the catch and release of her partner's hands. "Now this lift we can totally do."

The "no" tickles the tip of her tongue, but they had played around with a lift like this one in rehearsal for the jive, so she presses her lips together, gives a little nod. Besides, sand makes for a softer landing if they wipe out.

His arms come around her, anchoring her hip just above his, and she flies. No wobble, no hesitation, just strength and the rush of air bringing every inch of her skin to life as they turn a full circle.

Her bare feet meet soft sand. With every turn, the beach dims; she sees only his face. Electricity sparks where his fingers grip to guide her, where hers cling, with every bunch and flex of his muscles.

Taking her hands, he turns her to face away, breaking from the choreography they both remember. His arms wrap around her, pulling her back against him, and her nose fills with his cologne. Awareness blooms when his hips roll into hers, the magnetic warmth of his body seeping into hers, relaxing her frame, drawing her shoulders and head back into the solid mass of him.

The music builds then drops away as the final chorus starts, and a gentle puff of air caresses her ear, filled with Castle's soft baritone.

"Now I've had the time of my life-"

A tingle starts at the base of her spine.

"-and I've never felt this way before."

The goosebumps flare across her shoulders, up the back of her neck.

"Yes I swear, it's the truth."

Holding her breath, she shuts her eyes and gives in.

"And I owe it all to you."

Her body glows with it, nerve endings firing at the tip of every finger, every toe.

Castle releases one of her hands, grips the other tight, and spins her out. Her laughter bubbles up, and as he brings her back in, she throws her head back to let it erupt.

When the song fades, her smile does not. He does not let go, one hand clasped in hers and the other wrapped at her waist.

After one frozen, silent moment, the Ghostbusters theme blares out from the patio, and Kate swallows, trying to rein in her galloping pulse. The air crackles between them, and her eyes drop to his lips, still curving up in a grin. They would taste like champagne.

"I'd better be heading home." She has no idea where the words come from. Castle's face falls, and the hand at her waist drops away. Kate doesn't resist when he keeps her hand clasped in his. But she does step back, swallows again to shove down the rising weight of disappointment at her own suggestion.

"All the way across downtown LA on Halloween night? You'll never get a cab."

"I don't suppose your car service is waiting out front at Elizabeth's?"

"Nope. Don't need it. My house is a couple minutes up the beach." Dark eyes search her face, but when he opens his mouth again, he doesn't hesitate. "Stay with me tonight."

Everything goes still. Over the pounding of her heart, Kate hears her own breath rush in.

"I..." Every reason to say 'no' deserts her. She steps back to breathe. "I… Ow!" Pain, hot and bright, stabs through her left heel. Her knee jerks up, throwing her off balance, and Kate pitches forward, straight into Castle's arms.

# * # * # * #

Thanks to Alex and Jenny, without whom I would never publish, or at least not publish anything y'all would want to read. ;)

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: kathrynchristie dot tumblr dot com


	11. Chapter 11

_Please note the rating change. The section in question is near the end, marked with longer section breaks_.

# * # * # * #

"Castle, this is ridiculous. Put me down."

Kate's complaint sounds half-hearted even to her own ears. Her partner had lifted her like a feather on the beach, ignoring every protest until she had quit fighting and sunk into the solid circle of his arms. He slides open the glass door at the back of his rental house and turns to step over the threshold, not even out of breath after 200 yards of slippery sand and two flights of stairs.

"This is your foot. You're a _dancer_." His breath paints her cheek as he turns back to shut the door, and Kate clutches tighter to the bunching cords of muscle spanning his shoulders. "Please tell me you have them insured."

"I'm not a supermodel, Castle. I'm sure it's a scratch. I've danced on much worse."

"There was blood on that seashell, Kate. When was your last tetanus shot? Maybe I should take you to the ER."

"You should take me to your couch and _put me down_ so I can look at my foot." And so she can finally take a breath that isn't steeped in his cologne. "It doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Fine." His sigh sends a wave of warm air tickling the fine hair along the curve of her neck and sets off a swarm of butterflies.

Castle clicks on the overhead light and turns toward the living room, every flex of his arms leaving her with a fresh bite on the inside of her cheek. Forcing her eyes away from the play of muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, Kate sucks in a stunned breath at the view. Floor to ceiling windows face the beach, framing the parchment moon.

Her gaze hangs on the window as buttery leather cushions her descent. The side of her body that had been molded to his feels far too cold, and Kate snaps back to herself. Leaning forward, she tries to work out a way to look at her injury without flashing Castle.

Yeah, not gonna happen.

"Don't move until I get back with the first aid kit." He backs toward a dark corridor. "I want to get a good look at it, see if you need stitches."

"I don't need stitches."

What she needs is a cab. What she needs is a scalding hot shower and her sweatpants, and god what she wouldn't give for another glass of that champagne. What she needs is half a city between herself and her partner so she can figure out what the hell happened out on that sand.

The memory of his lips, not an inch away, plays on repeat. She had almost -

But she hadn't.

And as soon as she slaps on a Bandaid and gets the hell out of here, she can be sure she that she won't. Bending her knee and arching back, Kate twists until she can see the sole of her foot. A red line streaks along the outside edge of her heel, a slick trickle of sand-encrusted blood leaking down.

"My foot barely even bled." She rearranges herself and starts to spin to put her feet down. "Could you call me a cab while I go get my shoes?"

"Hey - no moving." He reappears, cordless phone in one hand and red plastic box in the other. "I just tried for a cab. Like I thought-two hour wait. My car service said at least an hour."

He perches next to her feet and she reaches for the discarded phone on the coffee table, punching in all twos for Checker Cab. Busy signal. Fantastic. Before another cab phone number comes to mind, long, warm fingers wrap around her left ankle. Goosebumps flare up from those gentle points of contact as Castle lifts her foot into his lap. He trails one finger along the curve of her heel, sparking every nerve on the way.

"Damn seashell."

"Wha-what?"

Synapses fire in all the wrong places. Eyes fluttering closed, Kate focuses on the crash of waves outside, the metallic taste of her abused lip, the scent of lilies from the vase on the table - anything other than the play of his hands on her skin.

"Nasty scrape on your heel, but I think the bleeding has stopped." Cold stings at the spot and she gasps, eyes popping open. "Sorry. Peroxide. Only hurts for a second." He swabs a few more times, cleaning the blood along the arc of her arch.

"Wonder Woman? Or are you more of a She-Ra kind of girl?"

"Excuse me?" She blinks up at him, brain registering the paper-wrapped Bandaids pinched between his fingers.

"Or I can tape it up with some gauze if that would stay on better."

"No… She-Ra is fine."

Castle nods and she has to force herself to inhale when his thumbs smooth the two adhesive strips into place. She won't get her parents out of bed after midnight on a weeknight, but maybe Lanie can come get her. She clicks the phone back on.

"Kate." His hands still cover her ankles, warmth seeping into her skin, and her eyes climb to meet his. "My offer still stands. I have a guest room."

Something sinks in her gut. His guestroom. Of course. Pulling her feet from under his hands, she drops them to the floor, toes flexing against the cold hardwood. The phone beeps a busy signal, and she thumbs it off, returning it to the table.

"I… I don't have anything with me."

"Not a problem. The guest bathroom is fully stocked, and I can lend you something to sleep in."

Kate stands, testing her heel with a careful step. Finding only a little twinge, she trails after him down the hall, nearly runs into a stack of neatly folded towels when he appears from a darkened doorway.

"Everything else should be under the sink." Pouches of make-up removal cloths balance atop the towels as she takes the pile from him. "You take a shower. I'll go get your things from the beach. We can pick up your car on the way to rehearsal in the morning. Oh, almost forgot." He disappears again, pops back in dangling a t-shirt and sweatpants out to her. Half-dazed, she stares back. "Unless you prefer to sleep in sparkles," his other hand motions up and down at her costume.

Kate drops the towels and takes the clothes.

"No, I… Thank you."

"OK, just let me know if you need anything else. I'll go grab our stuff."

He backs away, pulling the bathroom door closed behind him. Turning, she surveys the small room, catches a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. No wonder he remembered the make-up remover. Her face is a collection of smudges, too-bright color feathering outside her carefully painted lines. Spray-tanned skin flares orange under the unforgiving overhead, framed by the stark white walls and marble. Hopefully the layer of bronzer won't stain the sparkling tile in his shower.

Reaching around her neck, she grunts as her fingers cannot reach the first clasp. Damn it. She tries again, starting at the small of her back instead. Sucking in her stomach, she manages to snag one hook, but the clasp catches on a cluster of Swarovskis at her waist, and she lets out a growl. A light tap on the door precedes Castle's voice just outside.

"Everything OK in there?"

"Fine." She turns her back to the mirror, cranes her neck over her shoulder trying to get a look at the mess where the now-twisted hook is stuck. Wrenching it, she loses her grip again and curses.

"You sure? I was on my way out and I heard a… Growl?"

With a huff, she steps back and pulls open the door.

"I can't get my costume off."

Light dances in her partner's blue eyes, but his mouth stays stern, lips pressing together in a tight line.

"Want some help?"

"Yes, please." She turns her back to him as he steps up behind her. "The hooks are-"

"Impossible. I know." The first clasp releases at the base of her neck, and efficient fingers work their way down, opening one hook after another. "But you've got to hand it to Randall. He manages to keep these things on no matter what acrobatics we come up with."

She presses her elbows to her sides to keep the loosening gossamer fabric from falling open.

"What did you do to this one?" He drops down onto his knees behind her, nudges one hand at her hip. "Turn so I can get some more light."

"I almost had it…" she shifts to face the mirror and he comes into view, brow crinkled in concentration as he works at the final tangle at the base of her spine.

"Almost had it in a constrictor knot." A hot puff of breath teases the newly exposed skin just above his hands. "Geez, Derrick Storm couldn't have gotten it this tight. Let me just get the tension off before something..." one of his hands splays wide over her waist, pressing into her flesh and tugging the sheer fabric tighter around her middle, and she draws in a quick breath "… pops."

Their eyes meet in the mirror, his wide and dark as his thumb strokes along the edge of fabric. Something releases, and his eyes drop back to his task.

"There. You're all undone."

Kate stands still, not breathing, as seconds tick by until he rises and leaves, door snicking closed. The air exits her lungs in a rush, hands gripping at the counter's edge to keep her upright.

Shower. Time to shower.

# * # * # * #

A cloud of steam eddies around her when she exits the bathroom, her skin scrubbed and hair damp. Shadows blunt the corners of the hallway; no sign of her partner. The scratch on her foot, without its superhero Bandaid, thanks to her shower, stings as she slips back toward the guestroom, ready for sleep - and a clearer head.

Quiet music drifts from the living room, making her pause. Dropping her deflated costume on the dresser, she cocks her head to the side. _Fred Astaire._

Light from a low fire dances through the empty living room as her bare feet pad across the cool hardwood.

"Have a good shower?"

She jumps at his voice, as soft as it is, coming from the kitchen.

"I did. I'm sorry, I probably used all the hot water." Circling a set of jack-o-lanterns twinkling on the kitchen island, she finds him dressed in a t-shirt and orange and black pajama pants, filling the second of two flutes of champagne. "You found our bottle?"

"Yes, but this is a fresh one. Less sandy." Their fingers do not brush as he passes her one glass, lifts his own toward her in a toast. "To partners."

Their glasses clink, eyes locking until hers dart away, looking for something to keep her mind off the R-rated meaning of the word.

"Beautiful house." Her jaw clenches as the inane words leave her mouth.

The thick pile of the shag accent rug cradles her sore heel on her way toward the wall of windows. The moon hangs low, its silvery trail streaking straight toward the house across the blackness of the Pacific.

"It's mostly a frame for the windows." His voice circles behind her. "Hard not to fall in love with this view."

Warmth bubbles up from her core, and she stiffens her knees to keep herself upright. He isn't talking about her. He _isn't_. But Astaire still croons, and another moonlit scene plays in black and white through her mind-Ginger in that feathered gown, always the cynic, immune to Fred's charms. And then they dance, and without fail, magic.

"You wanna dance, Rick?" She pivots, finds his eyes wide and just inches away.

"I-..." He blinks once, then again. "Yes."

One corner of his mouth curls up, dimple dipping in the curve of his cheek, and he collects her champagne, sets both glasses aside.

The butterflies multiplying in her stomach demand small talk.

"I've always loved this song." Her hand clenches, fingertips, chilled from holding her glass, press damp points into her palm.

"It's with Ginger, right? And there were feathers." He steps in, offers his hand - familiar, formal.

"I'm going to have to compliment your mother. You know your Hollywood classics."

When their palms press together, a new kind of awareness surges up her arm. She steps in. Way in. Close enough that her hips nudge gently into his, the drawstring waist of her borrowed pants trapped against her belly.

His arm has no business wrapping so far around her back.

"She'll be here for Thanksgiving, assuming we're still in this by then. You can tell her yourself." His voice vibrates just behind her right ear, and she does not shiver. She doesn't.

"_I'm in heaven."_

She tucks her nose into his shoulder and breathes. Finds pine and sandalwood and something bright from the damp ends of his hair. His fingers spread wide at her back, and his inhale chills the skin edging on the loose neck of her t-shirt. And then he hums along.

"_And my heart beats_

_So that I can hardly speak."_

Lips vibrate against her hair, and her eyes slam shut, every muscle going liquid. Pressure at her waist leads her back into a low dip, and his face looms in the flicker of firelight, so serious and dark she cannot draw in breath.

"_And I seem to find_

_The happiness I seek"_

Her lips part, and she lets go, leaves all her weight for him to hold. She doesn't fall.

"_When we're out together_

_Dancing cheek to cheek."_

The world blurs, then rights itself. No, he rights it - lifting her as blood rushes from her head, her view narrowed only to his face. Her chest expands, filling the space between his ribs and the splay of his palm, lungs screaming for oxygen, something to wake her up, break this spell.

"Kate, can I-"

His breath heats her cheek, and desire sends her fingers into his hair, pulling him in. Her lips meet his, eyes shutting tight because she wants to just_ feel_. The tip of his tongue traces the seam of her mouth and she opens for him, letting out a single muted note from the back of her throat as she tastes him, crisp, like their champagne. Kate pulls away on a gasp, eyes opening to search his face for some sign, some tell that he's playing along, playing her.

All she finds is heat.

"I - that was - Kate, there's something you should know."

Her heart hiccoughs, then stops cold.

"When I asked you to be my date tonight, I should have been honest with you."

Ice freezes solid in the pit of her stomach.

"You guessed I wanted you to be my date for the publicity."

Static fades in over the soft piano. Her shoulders straighten and she steps back, cool air rushing into the space between them as she takes a deep breath, pulling it all back inside.

"But I didn't ask you to the party for votes-" his eyes flick back and forth between hers, pupils blown - "or for Peter Ford, or for ratings." He's holding his breath, and the static fades out, and in that instant, she is holding hers, too. "I asked you because I think you are extraordinary."

Her heart lurches to life again, lungs filling with fresh air as electricity zips up her spine. Castle opens his mouth to continue but she catches a handful of his shirt and pulls him in, sealing her own to it. It takes one stuttering breath for him to catch on. His hands slide and grab - behind her knee, under her ass, hoisting her up until her legs clamp around his waist.

Her world spins, veering in the direction of the hallway. When his teeth sink into her bottom lip, her concentration falters, and her legs lose their grip, slipping just enough to make him stumble. Her back thuds against the closest wall, the weight of his body pinning her there.

So much for balance and coordination.

"Hey, no fair. I've got like six feet of professional dancer leg distracting me." His voice husks against her skin.

So much for her filter.

Her sigh comes out more like a grunt, desperate fingers threading together behind his head. She tugs and her tongue slides into his mouth. The wall bites into the line of her spine when his hips grind into hers, but her moan is all pleasure.

"Bed. Now."

"Yes, Ma'am."

The edge of his smile tickles her cheek. She cinches her legs around him as he lifts her off the wall, one hand skating down to slip under the tail of his shirt. Hard muscles ripple against her fingertips, making her own stomach clench, and Castle groans.

"Kate."

His lips move but not against her skin. Kate pulls back, finding his eyes clear and locked on hers.

"Are you sure?"

"I - Are you?" Because holy fuck, yes, she wants him. After six weeks of denying herself, she wants exactly this.

"Yes. I just don't-"

"Then shut up and get me naked, Castle."

His arms release, and she lands with a bounce on his king-sized bed.

"Hold on."

He dashes off and she stares after him, her head spinning in a way she wishes she could blame on alcohol. A rectangle of yellow light cuts across the floor from the bathroom, and she hears him curse as he slides open drawer after drawer. A triumphant _Yes_ echoes off the tile and he slides back into view, a small box held up in victory.

Condoms. He had to go fish in his bathroom drawers to find condoms. She blinks, cursing herself for every time she wrote him off as a womanizing ass.

Rising up on her knees, she reaches for him, tugs him onto the bed by the hem of his shirt. Peeling it off takes too long, but when the t-shirt lands on the floor, she realizes it was more than worth the effort. Moonlight cuts across his body, finding all the best angles - abs, shoulders, biceps. Her teeth clamp down on her lower lip.

Starting at his wrists, Kate traces up the length of his arms. She drags her fingertips along the fine hair dusting his forearms, curls around the bulge of each upper arm, skims along the razor edge of his collar bones. His nipples peak before her palms can flatten against them and she hears his breath catch. Gaze rising to his face, she finds his eyes closed, nostrils flared.

"Rick?"

Long lashes part, hazy eyes focusing on hers. And then he moves.

# * # * # * # * # * #

Laying her back onto the mass of pillows, Castle hovers, muscles tense, holding back. Featherlight fingertips nudge up the worn cotton of her shirt. When the soft fabric crests over her breasts, he drops his head and takes one tight nipple into his mouth. Wet heat floods her, makes her cry out, but before the spark can ignite, his lips release.

Pulling the shirt over her head, he finds her eyes and holds them while his tongue slicks along the underside of her other breast. Kate fights the urge to shut her eyes, to keep something to herself. But when he latches on again, every nerve sparks straight to her core. Watching his pupils blow wide and black is like a drug. She couldn't look away now if she wanted to.

He doesn't linger. Nibbling down over her ribs, his nose nudges at her navel, lips wetting the jut of one hip. The drawstring at her waist catches, cord jittering as it unknots, releasing the fabric to be dragged down - finally off. Sitting back on his heels, still, he studies her.

Her body is hard, strong. Has to be for her job. Kate uses it - flaunts it - every week to play to the audience and the camera on stage, barely covered in sparkles and scraps of lycra, without a second thought. But dance takes its toll - when her costume and spray tan come off, there are bruises, calluses, scars. Hers is not the body of a pampered starlet. Darkness cannot airbrush away the flaws.

"You're staring."

Blinking, he opens his mouth, closes it again.

"I'm sorry, I just- Do you ever get tired of being told how beautiful you are? I mean, I'm a writer, I should be able to come up with something different... profound. My words are gone."

Speechless. A smile curves at one corner of her mouth.

"Sounds different coming from you."

His answering smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and one knee slides between hers, dipping into the soft mattress. Her legs splay wide and he settles between them, hot breath at the crease of her thigh sending shivers up her spine and making her eyes flutter closed.

Her hips flex but find nothing, and she pries her eyes open to find him watching her again. As soon as their gazes lock, his mouth descends, the flat of his tongue soft and insistent against her. Voice catching on a strangled sob, Kate flexes her feet, heels digging into the mattress, and he slides one thick finger inside, curling up.

When he curves his tongue around her, her knees tremble, fall to the bed. When he adds a second finger, her hands grip the edge of the mattress, clawing for purchase until the sheet pulls free. When he hums against her, the vibration teases until he seals his lips around her and - a single, broken note escapes her throat when she comes hard into his mouth, back bowing as he draws it out, works her down.

Heart still pounding, she reaches for his arm and drags him up her body, pausing to taste herself on his smiling lips before she flips him under her. Straddling his waist, she traps his length, hard against her stomach through the soft flannel of his pajamas.

"Why are you still wearing clothes?"

His hands fumble with hers, both reaching blindly as their mouths meet in a fierce, open-mouthed kiss. Pants and boxers join the pile on the floor, and she takes him in hand, suppressing her shudder as her fingers wrap around, slide over the silky, taut skin. Her mouth waters.

"Kate."

Desperation sharpens that one syllable, making her change course. Digging in the pillows until she finds the small black box, Kate tears the foil and covers him, then slides up, breath catching at the thought of how the thick, hard length of him will feel buried deep.

Castle watches, lips parted, breathing shallow, as she rises above him. When she sinks, feels herself stretch as she takes just the first inch, his hands come to her hips, fingers barely brushing the sensitive skin. Relaxing on a deep breath, she lowers herself until their hips meet and his fingers dig in.

He reads her cues, anticipating her every dip and slide, his slow, steady thrusts sending her toes curling into the hollows behind his knees. Broad hands slide over her sweat-slicked skin, pulling her down on top of him so every inch of them is pressed together, and the thousands of times she has imagined the feel of those hands on her body cannot compare to this soft glide, the flex and grip. Possessive. Gentle. Fierce.

All that knowledge, muscle memory, the way they move together on a dance floor or a stage, plays out here, intensified, focused on this tiny space, these small, tight movements. So in synch. Even his breath matches hers, warm heat kissing her lips, not quite meeting as their bodies rock together.

Their eyes lock when he pulls her hips tight against him-a tiny shift, but something clicks-her mouth falls open in a silent gasp.

Kate loves control. Needs it. Craves it. Until she doesn't anymore. His palm flattens at the base of her spine and pulls her down harder and she's- she's- fuck-

"Rick-"

His forehead nudges into hers, bringing him in past her line of focus, hazing his face into smudges of lips and skin ducking into the shadows of her hair. Her back arches, body going rigid, but he keeps thrusting up, hips pistoning into hers, until electricity sizzles at every point of slick, dirty contact, and she's gone.

Pulling back, she finds those sapphire eyes, dark but so clear, fixed on her. His arms flex and curl around her ribcage, the pads of his fingers interdigitating along her spine, barely pressing.

Eyes narrowing, he keeps going, rides out her aftershocks until her lips finally meet his. In the middle of the kiss, everything tips upside down, and he pins her to the bed, presses inside her, asking.

Nodding, she cants her lower body up, matches him in the slow, heavy roll, humming as their bodies meet because god she's right with him again. Faster now, he drops to his elbows, reaches down to tug one of her knees up, and she cries out, going along because it's working and perfect and fuck, he's watching her again. Brow creased, he hovers above her, arms and shoulders straining as he drives her up and up, and her body flutters, a cold sweat breaking over her skin from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

"Rick-"

And his body arcs against hers as he lets go, the force of it sending her flying with him.

As her heart stutters and slows, his ribs nudge into her chest, breath warm, tickling the curve of her neck. Part of her wants to keep his weight, the warm mass of him, over her, let it lull her into a love-drunk haze. Her lips curve up, head turning to smudge a kiss at the angle of his jaw.

So, so good.

# * # * # * # * # * #

Bad. This is very, very bad.

Kate's eyes pop open to find unfamiliar green digits staring back. 3:04. The sheets smell wrong - flowery and sharp and like -

Fuck.

Castle.

Is breathing softly behind her, thick biceps draped over her naked waist.

A knot curls in her stomach.

Sex. With her partner.

Lifting her head off the memory foam pillow, Kate squints through the inky darkness of his room, spots her borrowed t-shirt and sweats in a pile on the floor. Shutting her eyes, she thinks through her exit. Her things are in the guest room. Surely the wait for a cab won't be long at this time of the morning.

Gripping the edge of the 2000-thread-count sheet, she slips one leg out, skin prickling at the unwelcome chill. As she starts a careful roll and slide to extract herself from his hold, his slack muscles flex, voice like gravel at her ear.

"Kate, the only person who needs to know you stayed tonight is me."

She freezes, face blooming with heat, eyes fixed on the far corner of the ceiling. The band of his arm doesn't budge. Taking a breath, she tries to roll to her stomach, and his hold melts into a gentle weight across her skin. Clenching her jaw, she runs the excuse over in her head, then turns to face him.

Lying on his side with the waning moon silhouetting the curve of his shoulder, the muss of his hair, he doesn't smile. But he looks. And he breathes.

His fingers splay over the small of her back, spreading wide, blunt nails scraping softly in. No pressure.

The knot uncurls.

# * # * # * # * # * # * #

Author's note: Thanks to every reader who hasn't given up on this story. I promise I won't, either. To Alex and Jenny, this never would have made it to primetime without you two. You know how important you are—I won't waste words telling you here. Dia, Anons, you have the loveliest pom poms a writer could ask for. And of course, thanks to the lovely E, for my artwork, which still inspires me every time I write. Now everyone go watch Fred and Ginger and feathers. Until next time.

Twitter: kate_christie_

Tumblr: kathrynchristie dot tumblr dot com


	12. Chapter 12

"Yes."

Hot, heavy breath tickles her skin.

"Higher, back, back -"

Muscles ripple under her fingers, dewy and warm despite the cold room.

"Don't stop. Do _not_ stop now."

A grunt vibrates through his ribcage into her as his back arches.

"Yes!"

Rolling guitar chords fill the studio, and the splay of his fingers at her shoulder blade holds firm until the last note fades, then his arms band around her, pulling her smile tight against the salty skin of his neck.

"Why is this so hard? It's the waltz. Grooms learn this the week before their weddings."

Pulling back does something cold and cruel to the pit of her stomach, but she can do this, she's a professional.

"It's the posture. Looking away means the cues all have to come from… contact." God knows they've had plenty of that since last night. "We've only been at this for four hours - well, three and a half, not counting the incident with the mirror and the ballet barre." Her eyes drop to the dark patch on his chest, t-shirt clinging to his skin. His nipples are hard. _Fuck._

"'Incident?' Three collective orgasms sort of argue against calling that 'incidental'."

"I thought I made myself clear when we walked in -" she cannot help poking her finger into the meat of his flexing pec, "- no sex during rehearsal. It's unprofessional. We're here to work, not play."

Crossing to the sound system, she turns down the volume on the repeating rock ballad. The sap dripping from the lyrics had annoyed her when the DWTS music director had asked her to use it to modernize the band's waltz-filled set. Now, her heart melts a little every time the chorus repeats. God, it's been 12 hours. What has Rick done to her?

"But all work and no play makes Kate a dull dancer." His lower lip is pouty and adorable in the mirror over her shoulder. "Actually, no. Nevermind. Nothing could ever make you dull on a dancefloor."

Her eyes roll again.

"You don't have to flatter me - I'm already sleeping with you." Present tense, since it clearly isn't a one-time thing. Three, going on four...

He crowds in behind her, and her eyes find his in the mirror, just above a handprint smeared down the glass where he had pinned her.

"Seriously, Kate. I'm not kidding. You're -" his lips purse, eyes focusing on her mouth for a split second, before flicking back up to her eyes "- captivating. I could never get tired of watching you dance."

Heat from his chest warms the span of naked skin across her shoulders. The tiny spandex tank top just happened to be the only spare in her dance bag they had collected from the ABC studios after his homemade pancake breakfast. Rick had blamed her matching skin-tight black pants for inciting their earlier… adventure? Her words are one-dimensional, sticking in her mind as his warm breath ghosts along her spine.

"And I know you think I'm just being a guy, but I'm serious. The way you move? It's like -" fingertips feather over her ribs, painting goosebumps along the curve of her waist before dipping to trace the flare of her hips "- Van Gogh. I could stare for hours and no matter how long I look, there's always something new to see, something that grabs me and sucks me in, punches me in the gut, makes me see the world in a totally different light."

Sap. Sticky, sweet, drippy - God, but his gruff tenor sounds so earnest against her ear. Her heart takes a slow turn under her ribs. Spinning in his arms, her lips are on his before her brain can point out that she's breaking her own rule.

Again.

# * # * # * #

"Having trouble, Beckett?"

Her damn key is sticking. At least she wasn't this clumsy an hour ago on national television.

"You're distracting me."

Specifically, his massive arms around her ribcage, one hand sinking dangerously low in direct line of sight of nosy neighbors, are driving her crazy. Distracting her. Whatever. And his mouth has just found the patch of skin behind her right ear that makes her knees go weak.

"Here." He covers her hand with his less busy one and slips the key out of the lock and back in. It turns with no effort, and he chuckles, which earns him a smack on his biceps. "Hey, be nice to me. I helped."

Pulling out of his hold, she shoves open her apartment door and crosses the threshold, flipping on lights and dropping her bag just inside before heading for the kitchen. Rick isn't far behind, setting his duffle beside hers and retrieving the narrow paper bag.

"Have I mentioned that we won?" Rick had insisted that tonight's top ranking on the results show required Champagne, despite her repeated explanation that no one "wins" a single show.

"Not in the last minute and a half, no." Pulling her two matching flutes down, she wipes them with her dishtowel before setting them on her counter beside Rick. He reaches for the towel and wipes the sweat from the champagne bottle, then grips the base and twists.

"You have to admit, that routine was -" the cork lets out with a muted pop "- hot." If his eyes had hands, she would already be naked.

"I should know, I choreographed it." _Before_.

Taking a slow, deep breath, she grabs two pint glasses, filling them from the water pitcher in her fridge. Len had called on them to perform "Spooky" for the night's encore, and then Kate had danced the ridiculous professional group routine. She downs half the water before setting the glass beside the now-full flutes. Hydration before more exertion.

"Well, the dance had nothing on you." Their hands brush as he passes her wine, and a shiver runs up her spine. "To another week, and another win."

Their glasses meet and her mind flashes back 24 hours to his kitchen, flickering candlelight, another toast swirling in a cloud of butterflies. Smiling, she bumps her hip against his as she swallows the first effervescent sip.

"Getting a little comfortable in that spot at the top of the leaderboard, Rick?"

After repeating their routine tonight, she has to admit they belong there. All the tension had still simmered between them, the steam, the looks, the spark. But the undercurrent had shifted - mystery and anticipation to confidence, promise. Everything that only yesterday had required thought tonight had felt intuitive. Bodies aligned, timing in sync, movement fluid. It had all been _more_.

"We're getting that mirror ball trophy. I know it." Rick has already drained half his glass, reaches for the bottle to top it off.

"Unless you have a time machine you haven't mentioned, I don't think you can actually _know_ that when we're only halfway through." Planting her foot behind her on the floor, Kate leans forward toward the counter, stretching her right achilles.

"Fine. I can _feel_ it." Rick lays a warm palm on the small of her back, and she shifts to let him knead the tweaked muscle to the right of her spine. "You're clearly amazing; your choreography is fantastic. The judges are getting what they want."

Leaning into the gentle pressure, she feels the knot twitch, then release, and fights the urge to moan in pleasure as he continues.

"You heard the screaming while we danced tonight. The audience is getting what it wants. How can we possibly lose?"

Kate's heart clenches hard under her ribs. The memory of another night so many years ago - so innocent, so naive - eclipses the present.

_Sequins dig into her shoulders, pins assault her scalp, but none of it matters. Kate winks at her partner backstage as their dance is announced._

"_Let's go win International gold."_

_Ben smiles and pokes her in the ribs. _

"_A little cocky there, aren't we, Katie?"_

"_Ben, how can we possibly lose?"_

Her lungs scream, and she breathes herself back into her kitchen, stepping out of her stretch and retrieving her glass from the counter. Her gaze lands on the shadow box of bronze and silver medals on her bookcase.

"It only takes a second, Rick."

# * # * # * #

Clouds filter the morning sun as Kate steps out of Lava Java and crosses the parking lot, full for so early on a Saturday. The November morning chill has yet to give way to the inevitable press of Southern California humidity. As she slides into her car, her clammy skin tingles at the memory of her cornflower blue sheets, rumpled and warm and smelling like Rick's cologne. Slipping out into the morning darkness half an hour ago had gone against every instinct, except that one annoying one that makes her keep her promises, even on their only day off from rehearsal.

The first sip of her latte reminds her of the one Rick had made her yesterday at his house, fiddling with his high-end espresso machine as she had dug into a plate of fruit arranged in the shape of a smiley face. A pang of guilt rolls through her gut; he'll be waking to her empty bed and a scribbled note instead of the lazy breakfast in bed they could be cooking together.

A buzz from her bag snaps her out of her daydreams, and she fishes a moment before finding her phone, her parents' number flashing.

"Hi Mom."

"How did you know it was me? It could have been your father." Johanna Beckett's voice has a hollow echo to it. Must be on speaker.

Kate rolls her eyes and clicks her own phone onto speaker, then pulls onto the freeway.

"If Dad were out of bed at eight on a Saturday, he would be on the golf course."

"Hey, as a recently-retired workaholic, I resent that. I'm eating your mother's pancakes at the kitchen table."

Kate grins at her father's wounded tone.

"In your pajamas?" She can picture them, dredging syrup and refilling coffee, cordless phone set between them, leaves of newsprint, subdivided by section, covering every available inch of the honey-toned oak table.

"So what? I'm out of bed."

"Ha!" Kate changes lanes, able to drive at a reasonable speed for once in the light traffic.

"Enough about your father's weekend laziness. Are we interrupting… anything… this morning, Katie?"

"Just my drive to the rec center, Mom." Kate doesn't take her mother's bait.

"Ah, teaching on your day off. Well, at least you come by your work ethic honestly. Is that adorable _partner_ of yours with you? You seem to be spending an awful lot of time together these days." Johanna Beckett has rarely been accused of being subtle.

"No, he's not, Mother. You know I don't bring anyone to my class. And of course we're spending time together. We rehearse six days a week. Why are you asking me about Rick?"

"No reason, just, the last three times I've spoken to you, he's been there. And something about that dance - not on Monday - when you did it the second time, on Tuesday - something about it was…" the pause stretches as Kate holds her breath, "...different."

Kate exhales. Her mom's got nothing.

"We've just never performed a dance twice on air. We weren't expecting to get called on. Rick wasn't as nervous." Kate stops, leaves it at some of the truth.

"Whatever you say, Katie. But _I_ still say you should let the cameras go along when you teach your class one time - it would make a great 'day in the life' scene for the show."

"I teach outreach because the kids need access to the arts, not so I can win votes on the show." Her parents and Lanie are the only ones who even know she teaches. No doubt the publicity machine at DWTS would love to invade the one thing in her dancing life she does just for herself.

"But you know those kids must watch you. They'd probably love to be on TV, and it would be a great opportunity to promote the program." Despite her mother's persistent need to meddle, she does have a point. More donations might mean more classes.

"Fine, I'll think about it. Did you call me just to harass me about work, or was there some other reason?" Kate exits into Lincoln Heights, weaving through a maze of potholes.

"Just checking in before our trip. We hate that we're going to miss two shows, Katie. If we hadn't booked this cruise a year ago -"

"Mom, stop feeling guilty and enjoy your vacation."

"I'm recording all the episodes while we're gone." Her father's voice is muffled, probably with round two of pancakes.

"I'm sure you are, Dad." Kate smiles. Never one to risk a technology failure, her father probably programed their ancient VCR on top of setting the DVR.

"Well, _mairde_, and tell Rick we said hello," her mother sing-songs the superstitious good luck wish a little too cheerily.

"Thanks, guys. Hopefully we'll still be on the show when you get back."

"I'm not worried. I think you two are going all the way." Her mom hangs up before Kate can reply.

Parallel parking in front of the rec center, Kate slugs back the last of her coffee as she pushes open the car door and climbs out into a cloud of humidity. Even November can't last long against LA.

As she enters the former church turned rec center and climbs the two flights to the multipurpose room, her mind runs through today's lesson, and happiness bubbles up in her chest. Something about the kids' openness, the way they approach every new step as a challenge, brings back all the old feelings from her years taking classes, recharges her batteries. Stepping into the studio, Kate can't help but smile.

"Hey guys. How've you been?"

One or two chipper "good" or "great"s ring out over a mix of mumbles and grunts as the motley crew of kids stands up from their slumped spots on the scuffed floor, shoving books into backpacks and toeing off sneakers. Kate sheds her sweatshirt and street shoes in a pile by the sound system.

"I'm sorry I had to miss last time."

"It's okay, Ms. Bee. You just keep on gettin' those 10's." Keisha, her best student, smiles as she steps up to her usual spot at the front of the rehearsal space. "Some of us've been watching at my house."

"She been calling that 1-800 number ten times a week," Derek, her too-cool-for-ballroom skeptic, snarks.

"Like you haven't?" Keisha's fist balls on her hip.

Kate advances a step to get between the two. If they aren't dating, she'll eat her rehearsal heels.

"Guys, that's really sweet of you - I'm glad you like the show. But ballroom isn't about winning some trophy. It's about being creative and moving our bodies. It's about having fun." She turns to the shortest kid in the room, holds out one flattened palm. "DJ Zane, who are we warming up to today?"

The twelve-year-old struts over, passes her his iPod.

"First playlist. You down for Ludacris?"

"It's warm-up - you're in charge." She's going to wipe that smirk off of his pre-teen face.

Plugging in, she hits play and bass rattles the speakers mounted in the corners of the multipurpose room. The kids don't move, eyes smiling and faces smug as they glance from one another to her. She pauses a second, listening to the first few bars, lets them think she's thrown off before she adjusts her Lakers ballcap and drops to a crouch, hips rocking in time with the lyrics of "Moneymaker."

Derek lets out a "damn" and steps to the front of the group, starts to follow her through the hip-hop warm-up. The rest of the group falls in line, and she winks at Zane, who rolls his shoulders and gives her a flicker of a smile.

Beyonce is next, and Kate leads them through a stretch, half the girls mouthing "To the left," as they reach for their toes. Four days of non-stop dance and sex has left her muscles twitchy and sore, and she finds herself shutting her eyes to breathe past the tightness in her legs.

When the song switches again, whispers draw Kate's attention to a cluster of dancers to her left, but they go silent by the time her head turns. A series of snaking body rolls leaves her spine feeling limber enough to drop her head and shoulders back, so Kate is upside-down when she catches sight of the familiar blue eyes peeking in through the long window beside the door.

Her abrupt straightening nearly sets her lower back into a spasm, but she works through the shock to finish out the song, leading the kids through two minutes of cardio. Turning toward the stereo, she glares at the window, now empty, and turns down the music before she excuses herself to a titter of whispers and giggles.

Kate finds her partner backed up to the wall across from the studio door, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking sheepish.

"Castle, what the hell are you doing here?" It's sharper than it had sounded inside her head, prompting a flinch before he answers.

"Nice to see you, too, Kate."

"Seriously. How did you find me here? Did you follow me?" Kate's note had just been a vague apology for leaving, with no mention of where she had gone.

Rick pushes off the wall, over six feet of broad-chested male taking up most of the narrow hallway.

"No - I - your mom called and -"

"My mother called you?" Kate's hands are firmly on her hips when the implications of that sink in. Did they trade phone numbers behind her back?

"No - she called your place, and I was still asleep, so I - I answered."

Kate feels the scrunch of her brow as her eyebrows rise, along with heat, toward her hairline.

"You answered my phone?"

"I was half-asleep, and it wouldn't stop ringing, and then I sort of hallucinated I was at home and maybe Alexis was calling me, so I just -" he mimes picking up her cordless, "And your mom is really nice. I mean I knew that already from after the shows, but this was -"

That's why her mom was being so pushy about Rick on the phone. _Bedroom voice_ picked up the fucking apartment phone. She already _knew_.

"So you answered my phone and she told you where I was?"

"No," his voice drops with his eyes, "your calendar was just sitting there, open on your desk, and there was an entry for this place," his index finger points up, then down toward the floor, then circles, "for today -"

Something snaps inside her chest.

"You snooped on my desk?" Who the hell does he think he is? An invitation into her bed is not an invitation into her whole life. "And don't you say it was 'research.' There are some parts of my life I don't want showing up in a stupid book."

His eyes narrow, and she probably imagines the hurt flickering across them. His voice drops low.

"I just wanted to see what you were like when you were teaching something that wasn't for a TV show."

Kate's next three arguments are fighting for first place on her tongue when the door creaks open behind her.

"Ms. Bee?"

Kate spins to find Derek and Keisha, arms crossed, standing at the threshold.

"You two gonna be yellin' long? Cause we can just - Ow!" Derek shoots a glare at Keisha and presses a hand to the rib she just elbowed.

"What he means is, is he," she smiles in Rick's direction, "coming in?"

"No."

"Yes." Kate and Rick answer simultaneously.

"He was just leaving, actually." Kate shoots him a sidelong glance, but Rick has a twinkle in his eye as he looks at her students.

"Actually, I came here to watch your class, but if your teacher doesn't allow visitors, I can -"

"Oh, please, Ms. Bee?" Keisha drops her arms and presses her palms together, eyes wide. "He can stay, right?" Even Derek's grunt doesn't dampen her enthusiasm. "We gotta practice with an audience sometime."

Kate's eyes flick back to Rick, now grinning. Keisha whirls to face the nosy clump of students who Kate can see gathered just inside the door.

"Guys, guess who's here? It's Rick Castle."

A chorus of female voices exclaim.

Damn it.

"Fine. He can stay." Her jaw clenches before she turns narrow eyes on the "he" in question and points an index finger at the center of his chest. "You sit in the corner and don't cause trouble."

Rick's eyebrows arch as he schools his features, but a tiny smile manages to slip through the solemn mask. He edges around her extended finger and into the room.

"Yes Ma'am."

Kate takes a cleansing breath, closing her eyes and running through all the reasons she shouldn't murder her partner in front of a room full of pre-teens before pushing through the door and turning left to the stereo. She has to squeeze behind his dented metal folding chair, tucked in the corner out of the way, to reach the cabinet of sound equipment. His bag is stowed underneath the chair, hands gripping the warped black edges of the seat, writer's eyes devouring the group of kids one by one.

In the deafening moment of silence between disconnecting Zane's ipod and connecting her own, Rick's quiet question echoes through the studio, spawning giggles.

"Oooo. Do I get to call you 'Miss Beckett?'"

Kate licks her lips and swallows, taking her time to answer in her full-on instructor voice.

"You're here to accompany and observe, not participate and annoy. Think you can handle that?" His head bobs, and Kate has to suppress an eye roll. Rick Castle, keep his mouth shut and behave? Fat chance. She collects herself and rounds on the room of gawking students.

"So class, as you can see, we have a surprise _visitor_ today."

From somewhere in the back corner, a voice sing-songs.

"Ms. Bee's got a _boy_friend."

Denying it will only make them sink their teeth in, so she wills the blush from her cheeks.

"As I was saying, our _visitor_ this week is Richard Castle. He's my _dance partner_ on the show." Clenching her jaw, Kate forces a smile and gestures toward Rick before she steps back to the sound system.

"And also your _boy_friend."

This time someone laughs, but no one owns up to it. Probably Derek, based on the break in his voice.

"Partner up." Her two sharp claps snap the middle schoolers back to attention just as the first a capella notes of "Kiss from a Rose" fill the room. They pair up with varying degrees of gender and height mismatching and find closed position.

"Mr. Elias said he guessed about half of you would remember your box step from last week."

"Mr. E. never plays Ludacris for warm-up." Derek leads his partner through a clean set of box steps as Kate demonstrates the lady's part up front.

"Nice work, Derek. Now that I know you can pay attention, I'll expect you to remember everything we're about to do a month from now when I see you again. Boys, this is you." Kate does a little shimmy-shake to turn into her imaginary partner, spins the cap backwards on her head, and mimes the man's posture and hold before executing the leader's part.

"Ahem."

Kate's head snaps around, body jolting when she finds her partner smiling broadly, standing from his chair. She tilts her head, pressing her lips together as she collects herself.

"I could, uh, help? Do the guys' part?"

Kate drops her arms from her invisible partner and crosses them over her chest, gives him her best "sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up" glare. Heat creeps up her neck and face, setting the tips of her ears aflame as her eyes drop to his feet. He's wearing his fucking dance shoes.

"Please, Ms. Bee?" Keisha bats her eyelashes in Rick's direction, smitten already.

"Come on, Ms. Bee? He's your _part_ner." Derek draws out the last word as he gives her a saccharin smile.

"Yeah, Ms. Bee, we never get to see both parts at once." Emanuel blinks up, her most serious student finally tipping the balance with that earnest look.

She lets out a defeated sigh.

"Fine."

Rick is already halfway across the room, waggling his eyebrows at the kids and grinning ear to ear.

"I get to lead, right?"

More giggles erupt from behind her as he steps up to invite her in.

"Yes, the _boy_ leads in ballroom, if nowhere else," she projects to the class, then lowers her voice. "Simple, Castle. Box step. We'll do turns next."

His nod comes as he leads her into a series of smooth, clear box steps progressing across the front of the room. No flourish. No showboating. _Hmm._

Two hours into class, they have covered three different turns, whisks, twinkles, and promenades.

"Okay, five minutes left. Gentlemen, invite the ladies in one last time. Your lead, your choice, just make sure you do every step we learned at least once."

"Does that go for me, too?" Rick holds out his hand, a soft smile on his face. Every time they've begun a new step, he has invited her in, every time she has needed to stop to correct, he has stayed silent. Not a single snarky comment, no contradicting her instructions, no wandering attention pulling the class off track.

"I usually just watch this part." The pang of regret surprises her. And then her kids start in.

"Dance, Ms. Bee. We wanna watch."

"Can we see your routine for the show?"

"Please, Ms. Bee? You never dance for us."

She and Rick had finished their waltz the afternoon before, days faster than any of their other dances. It needs polish, but they've got it down. Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she heads for the music.

"Fine. But just this once. This class is for you to learn ballroom, not for me to show off."

"We promise we'll watch really carefully," Keisha grins, her right hand over her heart.

Kate catches Rick's "thumbs up" to the kids in the mirror and can't help the twitch of a grin. One class and they're eating out of his hands. At least she had managed to resist his charms for eight weeks, but then, she's a professional.

Guitar chords fill the room, and Rick steps in, hand firm against her back, as Lifehouse sings about days and months. Leading her through their first sequence of turns, Rick's hold is light, his feet barely grazing the floor. A series of twinkles give her a glimpse of his face, beaming back at her as they clasp hands and let go.

"_It's you and me and all of the people, and I don't know why I can't keep my eyes off of you._"

Sunlight pouring through the wall of windows sinks her kids into silhouetted darkness, and performance instinct takes over. Her body tunes to Rick's, ears hearing only the counts and the words and his breath, eyes catching and releasing his as their feet eat up the floor.

"_There's something about you now that I can't quite figure out."_

Motion stops, but electricity flows into her hand from his rock steady hold, arcing through her body, along every flexing muscle as her right leg extends, the tip of her toe reaching the peak of the developé inches above her head.

"_Everything she does is beautiful; everything she does is right_."

The tug on her hand pitches her forward, torso aligning with his body as her leg curls back into attitude, and the room spins. Extending her arms and arching her back, she gives control to the momentum, feels the strength of her partner's arm at her waist, pivots on the ball of one foot at breakneck speed until the room blurs.

"_What day is it and in what month? This clock never seemed so alive."_

As the room rights itself from their final dip, applause fills her ears. Her kids stand in a half circle around the edge of the floor, and even Derek is smiling.

# * # * # * #

"Cold! Ah-ah-ice-"

Kate dabs a glob of aloe vera onto the cherry red skin on the back of Rick's neck.

"Suck it up, buttercup. I told you to reapply. If you're lucky, this will keep you from peeling before we have to go on camera in two days."

His shoulders hunch as her fingers trail the smooth, clear gel over the circle of inflamed skin where the collar of his t-shirt had been.

"But it's November. Who gets a sunburn in November?"

"Idiot tourists who spend the whole afternoon on the pier and don't reapply their sunscreen. OK, that's the best I can do for now, but you'll need more of this before you go to bed."

She snaps the cap back on the tube and climbs off the couch, knees sticking to the soft leather, as Rick slips a fresh shirt over his head. Trading the gel for her glass of Cabernet, she settles back into the cushions.

Rick squints in the direction of the sunset, the fiery orb just sinking below the horizon, painting the wispy clouds rosy-orange and mauve out his living room window.

"Traitor," he grouses at the view as he grabs his glass and the bowl of popcorn, then sinks down beside her.

"Don't blame it on the sunshine." Kate grabs a handful of popcorn and pops one prickly starburst in her mouth. "This is amazing."

"Real butter. Can't beat it." He slides open the drawer in the coffee table to reveal rows of DVDs. "So what's it gonna be, _Swing Time_? _Shall We Dance_? _Strictly Ballroom_?"

Her eyes gravitate to the white and red block print on one spine toward the back.

"You have _Flashdance_?" Her arching eyebrow cannot completely negate her smile.

"I did a lot of research before I took this job. Considering your history with cheesy 80's dance movies, I'd have thought Little Katie Beckett would have memorized the audition dance."

Her finger slides along the edge of the plastic box, nail catching on the corner to tip it up so she can grab it. She holds it between them, showing him the cover image of a barely-clad Jennifer Beals.

"It's a movie about stripping." And she had played the soundtrack until the cassette tape wore out.

"Exotic dancing."

"Fine, let's watch." Kate pops open the cover and crosses to the entertainment center, inserting the disc in the fancy DVD player. Getting the TV to come on requires another level of skill entirely, so thankfully he's digging through the pile of remotes on the coffee table when she returns to the couch, and the screen flickers to life on the FBI warning.

Watching dance movies, even the ridiculous ones, has always been part fun, part homework. One scene of Fred and Ginger can spark a new idea for a foxtrot sequence. Stripping in a seedy bar might set her choreographer's brain off in search of a salacious tango move. Her mind is already back on work by the time the first notes of synthesizer fill the room.

"I've been thinking, we should polish the waltz tomorrow morning, but then maybe we can start Cha-cha?" It's still opening credits, but she has an idea for a dip, based on that pose with the chair from the DVD menu.

Rick's hand freezes, a huge handful of popcorn poised at his lips.

"Wait, Ms. Pessimist-Never-Get-Ahead-of-Yourself-We-Could-Lose-Any-Time thinks we should start next week's dance on Sunday _before_ we've made it through this week?"

She crunches another single piece of popcorn and puts her feet on the coffee table, only half-watching the crawl of red letters.

"I'm a realist, not a pessimist. But if this morning taught us anything, it's that we've got the waltz. Next week we have two dances; we should get a head start."

He's quiet for a moment, then pulls in a long breath, drops his popcorn back into the bowl, and shifts on the cushion to face her.

"Kate, about this morning. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to invade your privacy."

Through ten turns of the ferris wheel, twelve circuits of the carousel, two bags of cotton candy, they hadn't talked about it. Barefoot in wet sand, hand in hand, memories of moonlight and wafting music replaying, they hadn't talked about it.

She swallows. Keeps her eyes on the girl bicycling over bridges of Pittsburgh steel.

"You didn't mean any harm."

He sets the bowl of popcorn between them, a delimiter of space or a peace offering.

"I won't do it again."

Her hand reaches out, fingers excavating a handful of delicate kernels. Her gut twists at the steady earnestness in his voice, smoothing over the last jagged edges of her anger from this morning.

"It's not - I don't want you to think -"

"You're a private person. I get it."

Kate drops her feet to the floor, sits forward, forearms resting on her knees, and studies the patch of shag carpet between her feet.

"Most of me, as a dancer, belongs to the show, when I'm on it. I need to keep a little piece out of that spotlight."

"And the spotlight follows me." Rick's voice is flat, resigned.

Her head turns, eyes catching on the shadow of his profile, flashes from the screen lighting the darkened angles of his face, backlit by the crimson sunset out the window. Her lips press into a half-smile.

A crease cuts across his brow, eyes narrowing for a silent beat before he speaks again.

"Why did you start dancing on the show?"

It's the question she's been asked a hundred times, on press junkets or red carpets, by friends and colleagues. Turning to face the TV, she straightens, her usual response queuing up inside her head. But she pauses, drawn into the scene on the bigscreen, as Alex takes off her welder's helmet, smooth skin lit up by the arcing light in the dark construction site, revealing to the audience the dual life of the young dancer. Kate's canned answer withers on her lips. Instead, she breathes, and tells the truth.

"Until 'Dancing with the Stars' started last year, if you were a mediocre professional ballroom dancer-"

"You have never been mediocre." His stony seriousness pulls her gaze, and she turns, tucking her feet under her to face him on the couch.

"Castle, I'm edging on 30, that's practically geriatric in ballroom. The last time I won a gold medal was in college. A year and a half ago, I was facing retirement, teaching at some Arthur Murray in the suburbs, or quitting dance altogether. Maybe going back to school."

Setting her wineglass on the table, she props her elbow on the back of the couch, rests her temple on the tight ball of her fist. Her stomach lurches at the memory of sitting on Lanie's couch, hungover after a night of drowning her sorrows over a lackluster finish in a local competition, calling Stanford Law to ask if her admission offer still stood.

"What about New York? You'd be amazing on Broadway." He mirrors her pose, his blue eyes searching hers.

"Broadway is for 18-year-old blondes with bigger boobs." And people who don't blow auditions. Her jaw clenches at yet another flash of defeat, the work, the choreographers, the hundreds of girls, all a little prettier, a little more graceful, a little more flexible, that week years ago now just a blur of rejection and regret.

"Not that you asked, but I think your -" His eyes flick down to her chest.

"Stop. Just - no."

His eyes return to her face.

"I think your _talent and maturity_ would make up for being a few years older than all the fresh-faced starlets."

"Too bad you're not a Broadway choreographer. Thankfully, before I could bail out of dance for good, Malik got a call from an old friend for an audition for this new TV show, said it had been a smash in the U.K.. He conned me into coming along for moral support."

"And the rest is history."

She reaches in for more popcorn just as he does, and his pinkie snags on her thumb. The warmth of his palm closes around her fingers, and they both abandon the bowl, clasped hands settling to the cushion beside it.

"Yeah, well, the only 'history' up until this season consisted of a few tabloid covers with close-ups of my ass hitting the stage, painting Flash as a football-playing Fred-fucking-Astaire. Let me tell you, when America's favorite Superbowl hero gets kicked off in week one, it's not the star's fault." Her eyes gravitate to Alex, dancing backlit in four-inch stilettos, dropping into a chair and pulling that cord, the bucket of water drenching her nearly naked body. Still one of the sexiest damn moments in film.

"The publicity machine spins it to sell copies - I get it." His head tips toward her. "But you could reset the narrative. No one at the show even knows about your class, do they?"

"Are you kidding? They'd be all over the feel-good, community-service angle. Next thing you know, the community center would get flooded by reality TV wanna-bes, trying to get an in at the show. My class is about those kids. Teaching them reminds me why I'm still dancing. Why I didn't give up and go back to spending my nights at the library, memorizing case law."

"You were going to go back to Stanford. Be a lawyer?" His thumb runs lazy rings around her knuckles, and the tight bands of muscle in her neck and shoulders begin unknotting.

"I loved it once. Almost as much as dance."

"You'd have been great in the courtroom. It is kind of show business, after all." His little grin is almost wistful, looking down that road not taken right along with her.

"Yeah, without the soul, maybe. Dance lifts people up. It's creative. It's physical and expressive and _human_ in a way law could never be. The spray tans and sequins are window dressing - a way to pay the bills. But the feeling of being in my body, of making it move, of moving other people with it, that's real, that's living. And in that class, that's all I have to be - real. And the real me is enough."

Kate swallows, the sting of tears at the back of her eyes surprising her with their insistence. Her cheeks bloom with heat, but Rick's hand squeezes hers, and she blinks, keeps herself together.

"You're more than 'enough,' Kate. You're extraordinary. You lit those kids up today, no costume or make-up required. You could see it in their faces, the joy you give off is contagious, and the confidence. They're learning more from you than dance steps."

Warmth spreads through her chest, loosening her hold on everything she usually manages to keep locked away.

"I won't write about it. I won't mention it to anyone at the show. I'm just really honored that you let me stay, let me see the real you. That's the one I -"

His lips taste like their wine as she kisses him, hard and long and breathless.

# * # * # * #

Kate is just as breathless on Monday night, as she and Rick rush from their final pose to stand before the panel. Fingers tickle the back of her hand and she clasps his sweaty palm, uses him as an anchor in the riptide of adrenaline now ebbing from their performance. Her thumb strokes over his first knuckle, soothing the half-moon of tiny pink marks now masked by makeup.

Despite her litany of threats as he had tried to convince her _he_ could stay quiet if she would "have a little fun" while they were waiting for hair and makeup earlier that afternoon, it had been _she_ who had gotten too loud, balanced naked on the vanity table of their dressing room. Stifling her gasps with his palm had worked well, until a shift in his angle had sent her over the edge, and she had bitten down on that knuckle. His yelp had been half pain, half pleasure, and Rick wouldn't accept an apology, citing "no pain, no gain."

"Mister Castle," Bruno's address jolts her out of the steamy memory, "We knew you could charm us with your words, but now? What grace! What power! The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the waltz may be your mightiest weapon of all!"

Rick lists into her, shoulder nudging hers and hand gripping harder as he chuckles at Bruno.

"You two, I don't know, there's something electric about you tonight. Wouldn't you guys all agree?" Cheers answer from the seats, punctuated by one late whistle that could only be Lanie, and Rick inches away but doesn't drop her hand. "Whatever you're doing in rehearsal, keep it up." Thankfully, Carrie Ann and the audience won't be able to make out Kate's crimson blush under the layer of make-up.

"Katherine, you have done an admirable job shaping up his posture. I must say, Mr. Castle, I was expecting those awkward arms from foxtrot and quickstep to make another appearance, but I'm pleasantly surprised to see you left them home tonight. Well done."

Kate ducks her head, her cheeks beginning to ache at such bubbling praise from Len. On their way up to wait for their scores, Castle leans in.

"How do you want to celebrate this time? Champagne? Candlelight? I think there might be one countertop at my place we haven't - ow!"

"Later, Rick. Make nice for Samantha."

"That was a very passionate song choice tonight. What was behind it?" The perky co-host smirks, expectant, but Kate refuses to take the bait.

"Waltz is always going to be an elegant dance, but it can still be relevant, express very human emotions. The song was a way to bring the audience in, get them to connect even in the face of such a traditional art form."

Rick crowds in front of the mic, stopping her before she can dive into a full history lesson on how the waltz scandalized Europe.

"And my kid loves that band. Okay, no, that's a lie. She'll kill me. _I_ love that band."

Samantha beams back, eyelashes batting.

"Well, you two certainly did connect. Let's see if it worked for the judges."

"Carrie Ann Inaba."

"9!"

"Bruno Tonioli."

"10!"

"Len Goodman."

"9."

Rick wraps her in a one-armed hug, but before he can haul her up and swing her around, their stage manager appears, holding a cell phone out toward Rick. The camera cuts away as Rick releases her.

"Mr. Castle, sorry to interrupt, it's your mother."

Taking the phone, he clicks it to speaker, smiling as he holds it between them.

"Mother, I know you feel bad that you couldn't make it tonight, but you didn't have to call backstage just to congratulate us."

"Richard, Darling. Now, I don't want you to panic, but I'm here with Alexis at Presbyterian-"

Rick's face melts to horror.

"What happened to Alexis?"

"She was feeling a little queasy before her math exam this morning, but she insisted on going to school anyway. The nurse called me this afternoon-"

"This afternoon? Why are you just now-? Mother tell me what's wrong." His eyes dart from Kate's face to the screen of the stage manager's phone, displaying his mother's 202 area code.

"It's just a minor case of appendicitis. I wanted to let you say hello before Dr. Butler takes her back to the operating room. It's a routine procedure these days, and her surgeon assures me she will be just fine. She'll be able to go home tomorrow."

"Appendicitis? _Surgery_? Mother - I'll be on the next plane. Let me talk to her." His eyes have gone wild, whole body leaning in toward that phone. He's blind to the fact that the whole room can hear their conversation, though most, including Samantha, have stepped away, trying not to intrude.

"Hi, Dad."

"Alexis, baby, are you OK?" Kate hears the forced steadiness in his voice, but his Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow, his brow shadowed in a jagged map of lines and creases.

"I'm fine, Daddy. I'm getting antibiotics; I feel much better. Dr. Butler says I'm going to have bandaid surgery - he could do it in his sleep. We just saw the show. Tell Kate you guys looked amazing!"

Kate watches as Rick's brow relaxes one degree. She takes his nod as permission to answer, though he won't meet her eyes.

"Thank you, Alexis, I'm right here, and I'm so glad you're feeling better."

"Thanks, Kate. Mostly I'm just hungry. No food until after surgery. And Dad was right, he does love Lifehouse." A wan smile spreads over her partner's lips. "And Plain White T's."

Kate chuffs out a laugh, half nervous, half proud of this brave, smart girl for saying just what her dad needs.

"OK, I know you can't be feeling too bad if you're ratting me out on my poor choices in Emo rock. But I'm still getting on the next plane to New York." Rick inches toward the hallway leading to their dressing room, gaze never leaving the phone, despite the fact that it's only Alexis' voice coming from it.

"Dr. Butler is here. Time to go. Love you, Dad."

Rick's eyes shut tight as his nostrils flare in an inhale.

"I love you, too. I'll see you when you wake up, Pumpkin." Clicking off, he presses the phone back into the hand of the stage manager.

When the phone snaps closed, he's already gone.

# * # * # * #

A/N: Thanks for so much prodding, poking, nagging, and (of course) editing, my dear Jenny, Alex, and Dia (pew-pew). Readers, I am amazed you guys are still hanging in with this story, but I'm more than thrilled. Thank you to everyone who has left me a note on twitter, tumblr, or in my FFN message box asking for an update. The story will be about 20 chapters, and 13 is about halfway done. I'll keep doing my best in the face of real life adventures. Until next time.

-KC

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: kathrynchristie


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